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xiao-come-home · 9 days ago

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How they sleep with you - HSR Edition!

✰ Characters: Anaxa, Phainon, Mydei, Sunday, Aventurine, Boothill, Jiaoqiu.

✰ Words: 1,3k.

✰ SFW ; a tiny bit sug/gestive in aven's part.

Warnings: none, gn!reader.

A/N: first time writing for anaxa, phainon, aven and sunday. pls spare me if theyre too ooc :( i tried pensive emoji

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Anaxa:

Religiously sticks to his half of the bed and expects you to do the same as well. Be aware that if you don't behave, he'll poke you intensely with a pointer until you return to your side. It's not that he is uncomfortable with physical contact per se, but he appreciates his personal space; he's not completely heartless though, as he finishes off his day with a kiss that leaves you both breathless. What you may not expect this for the first few times is that when the sun rises ever so slowly, the professor is the one desperately clinging to you, making his lengthy battle the night prior dissipate within mere hours.

"No such things happened," Anaxa answers swiftly, "however, this does not surprise me. This isn't the first time you've devised a ridiculous statement."

You would've believed his words if Anaxa wasn't currently nuzzling into your shoulder blades, searching for your warmth.

Phainon:

If Anaxa at least attempts to keep his distance, Phainon knows nothing of sorts. He's quite shamelessly glued to you as soon as you enter your bedroom, let alone the bed itself. Though, you're not exactly sleeping as soon as you crawl under the covers - Phainon tends to have a cuddle session before finally succumbing to sleep. He wants to talk to you about his day and hear about yours - only then he's satisfied enough. Bedtime might also act as a rare, vulnerable time for Phainon, where no filter exists; he says everything that keeps him restless.

"Will you be there when I wake up?" Phainon only hopes his voice is not as broken as it is inside his head.

"Silly, of course. I'll be by your side every time you wake up." Your tender tone is enough to fade some of the somber clouds above his head.

Phainon laughs, but it comes out as bittersweet; he brings you closer and wraps his arm tightly around your side, hiding his face in your neck. He'll do everything to make it happen - even if it means fighting the fate itself.

Mydei:

The Kremnoan prince insists he doesn't require sleep, but falls victim to your puppy eyes. He makes sure you have the best quality of sheets, pajamas, and pillows; your comfort comes first to him, no matter how many times you insist that he brings you the said comfort the most, and the rest is insignificant. Mydei holds you close to his chest, playing softly with your hair to help you fall asleep - only then he's able to rest, knowing your soul is peacefully in repose. If plagued by nightmares, featherlight kisses on your eyelids wreak the foes away.

"Sleep well, my love," Mydei cradles your cheek for a moment, before adjusting himself; his lips are resting against your forehead, as he himself, begins to doze off.

You, on the other hand, watch Mydei sleep in the morning. A wide smile spreads on your face as you observe his chest fall and rise, a moment of interrupted serenity on his handsome face.

"Looking at me again?" The male questions, his deep voice dripping with honey, watching you with one eye open; perhaps not yet ready for the bright light.

"No...?"

Mydei pinches your nose lightheartedly.

"You're a bad liar."

Sunday:

Poor thing trying to break the habit. Being used to having everything in perfect state, Sunday needs a reminder that it's okay for bedsheets to have a few wrinkles here and there. He'll apologize nervously, but you can't stop him from fluffing up your pillows and readjusting the covers. He tries to stay on his half but desperately wants to stay close to you, so don't hesitate to pull him close - he'll freak out for a bit, and then slowly, but steadily give in to your touch. There's one thing you too, cannot resist - watching his innocent image crumble away in your very hands.

"Quit smushing my face against your—" Sunday's words die in his throat as you push his face further into your chest, the redness of his cheeks so bright, it could rival Himeko's scarlet hair.

"This is— this is inappropriate! How humiliating..."

You only laugh at your boyfriend's despair. Sometimes it's nice to be a villain.

"What, you're not gonna fight me? Are you chickening out?" You poke his side. He groans and bends in half for a second.

"Atrocious joke."

Be prepared for his wing accidentally hitting your face tomorrow when you kiss...

Himeko: lmfaoo robin you wont believe they actually did this *sends a video*

Aventurine:

Gambling who sleeps on the floor. You don't play that game anymore. The blonde finds great pleasure in aggravating you before sleep hits in, gambling with his own life to get a reaction out of you. He cackles mischievously if you try to suffocate him with a pillow for tickling you for at least 15 minutes prior, but even so, it's not enough for him to let you go to the dreamland, yet. By the time you're done, your bed needs to be made again and your shared panting could possibly give bystanders a very different idea...

"Aven, enough, I think my diaphragm might actually explode," a remnant of giggles still exits your mouth, unfortunately, Aventurine does not share your sentiment and snakes his arm against your belly, while kissing your neck a bit too enthusiastically.

"Stopping, now? Where's the fun in that?" His fingers play with the waistband of your pajamas, "Why not raise the stakes a bit more?" Your skin turns into goosebumps as you feel a grin painting itself on Aventurine's face against your neck.

Boothill:

Well, he doesn't sleep really, he has to get recharged with electricity to get the energy back... So there might be a problem. Hopefully, your bed is also able to support some heavy weight, since laying down with a man whose body is almost a full machine, can be quite challenging. Either way, Boothill is actually pretty excited to accompany you, even if he'll spend most of the time watching you sleep instead; he'll hum you a song to help you fall asleep, card through your hair with his hand - it's... Reminding him of the peace he used to have on his home planet. You being the only survivor besides Boothill made him much more protective than before, but seeing you sleep so blissfully curled up to him... You still trust him. That's all it matters, after so many sleepless nights you've had.

"Shh, sleep," Boothill urges you gently, pulling up the bedding to cover you further.

"I wish you could sleep with me."

Boothill chuckles, caressing your cheek with his robotic finger, "I might not sleep with ya anymore, but I'm still here. And will be, until yer sick of me."

Jiaoqiu:

This man. He wraps his whole body around you like a snake and doesn't let go until morning. If it's possible for him to entangle his tail somewhere - expect that too. If you try to escape his grasp, he'll accuse you of not loving him anymore and might bite you (in a teasing way, of course). The sly foxian tends to sneak his hands under your clothes to rest them over your bare skin; sometimes, if need be, instead of teasing you furthermore, he gives you a soothing massage before drifting off. In fact, he'd prefer to sleep bare - skin to skin, but respects it if you're not interested; not that a mere layer will stop him from being a menace.

"Jiaoqiu," you sigh, looking over your shoulder, "your tail is reaching places that the sun cannot."

"Oh, really?" His voice dripping with fake surprise, but he only adjusts his head against the pillow behind you, "A checkup is necessary in order to ensure your health is in good condition."

Despite his silvery voice and elegant words, don't be fooled - mischief is laced through the tiny gaps.

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a-casxandra · 16 days ago

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❝𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐌𝐞.❞

Actor Rafayel x you (non-mc) as his non-showbizz girlfriend. angst.

𝗕𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗳 𝗮𝗻 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗼𝗿 𝗶𝘀𝗻'𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗲𝗮𝗸. Especially if you’re not part of that dazzling, cutthroat world.

You never thought it’d be this hard. You told yourself love was love, and that behind the flashing cameras and glimmering premieres, he was just Rafayel—your Rafayel. Not the actor the world worshipped. Not the onscreen heartthrob. Just him. Just yours.

But lately, it doesn’t feel like he is.

You sat in the softly lit penthouse you both called home. Candles flickered on top of a small cake you picked up that morning, the wax slowly pooling as the minutes turned to hours. Your anniversary. Two years.

Your fingers trembled as you typed, “Rafayel, where are you? Shouldn’t you be home by now?”

It took him ten minutes to reply.

> “I’m with MC. We just finished shooting and the production team invited us to eat outside. So you don’t need to wait for me.”

You stared at the message. Read it. Reread it. It didn’t hurt because of what he said—it hurt because he didn’t even apologize. Like he’d forgotten. Like it didn’t matter.

You didn’t text back.

MC.

You knew her name before you ever met her. She was his first love—a part of his life from long before you arrived. He never hid that from you. He told you, once, that their story ended long ago. That what they had was over.

But now?

Now they were cast in the same drama. And the world, blind to you, started shipping them. Every interview. Every tweet. Every video edit, every comment and Rafayel never said a thing to deny it.

One week after your forgotten anniversary, you snapped.

You dressed simply. Jeans. Hoodie. Cap. And you went to the set. You knew where they were filming—of course you did. You’d helped him memorize lines, listened to him stress about this scene or that shot. And yet, he never once offered for you to visit. Never once asked if you’d come.

You stood behind the crowd near the monitors. Nobody noticed you. Just another fan in the sea of them. That was all you ever were, wasn’t it?

Then you saw him.

Rafayel stood across from her—MC—laughing softly. A sound you hadn’t heard from him in weeks. His hand rested on her back, gently. His eyes sparkled when he looked at her. You felt like a stranger, intruding on something real.

Then the scene started.

It was a confession. He looked at her with so much longing, you forgot it was acting. The way his voice broke on her name, the way his hands reached for hers. And when he kissed her… the world spun.

But you reminded yourself—it was a job. Just a script. Just a role.

Until the director yelled, "Cut!"

And Rafayel didn't pull away.

Their lips still touched. They were laughing. Flushed. Embarrassed by the cheers of the staff, by the teasing, but neither of them denied it. She tucked her hair behind her ear, he covered his smile—and you realized:

You never made him smile like that.

You couldn’t breathe.

Your legs took a step back. Then another. The voices faded. Your heart didn’t shatter all at once—it cracked, slowly. Silently.

You stood alone, surrounded by people who adored him. But none of them knew him. Not like you did. And maybe that’s why it hurt so much.

“Why is it her and not me?” Your voice trembled. “I’m his girlfriend… I stayed by his side longer than her… I supported him in his dreams… but I guess I’ll always remain a fan. Someone who cheers him on from the shadows… but never gets to stand beside him.”

You didn’t leave a note. You didn’t scream or cry. You just… left. The penthouse felt too big that night. You packed slowly. No drama. No chaos. Just… an end. Quiet and unseen, like you always were.

𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙜𝙚𝙩𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙣 𝙖 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮. 𝙎𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩…

…𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙡 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙗𝙧𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙜.

#love and deepspace #lads #lads rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel x reader #rafayel x mc #angst #lads zayne #lads caleb #lads sylus #lads xavier #oneshot #non mc reader #casxandraꔛ♥️

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theskywithin · 3 months ago

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Birth Chart Breakdown 🌑 Lilith in the Houses

There’s a part of you that doesn’t ask for permission. A part that remembers what it felt like to be silenced, shamed, exiled, for simply being whole. That part has a name: Lilith.

In your birth chart, Lilith shows where you’ve been told your power is “too much.” Too loud. Too angry. Too sensual. Too intuitive. It’s where you carry a refusal to shrink, even when doing so would make you easier to love.

1st House

They noticed you before you had the chance to know who you were. You were named, labeled, sexualized, misunderstood, before you even chose your own reflection. People projected onto you what they feared or wanted. You learned to either shrink or fight back, but either way, you were never neutral. Lilith here isn’t asking for softness, she’s asking for ownership. You don’t have to be likeable to be real.

2nd House

You were told to want less. Need less. Be grateful. You learned that wanting more made you selfish. That pleasure had a price, and value had to be earned. So you kept shrinking your needs until they looked polite enough to keep. Lilith here is done with that. Your body knows what it’s worth. Your hunger is not a flaw, it’s a compass.

3rd House

You learned to bite your tongue before your words ever found their edge. Maybe you spoke up too soon. Or too much. Maybe you were told to keep the peace. Or stay small. Lilith here holds the grief of being silenced before your truth could bloom. But that truth? It's still there. And it doesn’t need permission to be said anymore. You don’t have to be digestible to be understood.

4th House

You made yourself quiet to be loved. Love came with rules: be good, be still, don’t ask for too much. Lilith here carries the ache of inherited shame, the kind that gets passed through generations like china: fragile, silent, sacred. But you weren’t born to carry your lineage’s guilt. You were born to end it. You are allowed to be safe without being small.

5th House

You learned to edit your joy. You turned the volume down on your radiance. Because someone said it made you “too much,” “too loud,” “too visible.” Lilith in the 5th remembers a time when being seen was dangerous. But she’s also the voice that says: Be bright anyway. Be messy, be wild, be luminous. And stop apologizing for the art of simply being alive.

6th House

You were taught to disappear into service. Your usefulness became your identity. You overperformed. Overextended. Overgave. And somewhere in the repetition, you forgot what it felt like to just exist. Lilith here is tired of being a machine. She demands that you stop calling self-sacrifice love. You don’t owe anyone your depletion.

7th House

You kept abandoning yourself for love that didn’t know how to stay. You played roles, softened edges, dimmed your truth to stay chosen. But Lilith in the 7th house holds a mirror to every relationship that asked you to disappear. She doesn’t want revenge. She wants recognition. Love doesn’t mean losing yourself. You can be chosen without being edited.

8th House

You were taught that power lives in secrecy. But secrets become cages. You’ve seen how intimacy turns to control. How sex can become currency. How silence can rot you from the inside. Lilith in the 8th wants the whole truth. Even if it shatters the illusion. You’re not here to perform closeness. You’re here to reclaim it.

9th House

You were told what to believe. Who to be. What to worship. But your soul doesn’t follow rules, it follows resonance. Lilith here sets fire to false teachers, empty doctrines, and the quiet ways belief has been weaponized. You don’t want to rebel. You want to be free. And freedom starts with trusting your own questions more than their answers.

10th House

You’ve been punished for your ambition. Or worse, praised for it in ways that felt like control. You’ve been told to behave. To lead politely. To climb without taking up space. Lilith in the 10th house isn’t interested in pleasing the system. She wants to dismantle it. You don’t owe the world a sanitized version of success. You’re allowed to lead in a way that doesn’t leave you empty.

11th House

You’ve learned what it means to be tolerated instead of truly seen. Lilith here has been exiled from the group. Not because she was wrong, but because she was inconvenient. Your vision makes people uncomfortable. Your truth challenges the collective script. Good. This is where you stop trying to fit in. And start building spaces where you never have to ask if you belong.

12th House

You’ve hidden so much of yourself you forgot what was yours. Lilith in the 12th house is a quiet scream. She’s the part of you that still flinches when you feel too much, want too much, remember too deeply. But she doesn’t want to be healed. She wants to be held. This is where you stop exiling your shadow. And finally let the unseen be sacred again.

🌙 Your birth chart holds more than traits — it holds truth. 📖 Decode it with my book, step by step.

#astrology #astro community #astro observations #astro notes #birth chart #natal chart #natal astrology #natal aspects #lilith

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iydiamartinx · 8 days ago

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GUILTY PLEASURES

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

divider by: cafekitsune & omi-resources word count: 1.8k synopsis: You cheat on your boyfriend Jason with the Red Hood a/n: To my anon who requested this hope you liked it! I had to rush through editing so apologies for any grammar errors y'all might find. warnings: 18+ mdni, use of the words whore & slut, a little rough.

Jason Todd had been tailing a weapons deal all night, dressed in full Red Hood gear, helmet and all. The scum he’d come to intercept were already zip-tied and unconscious in the back of a stolen van. Meanwhile, you had told him you were going out with your girlfriends and had stopped texting him about an half hour ago much to his worry, so instead of going home like he planned he decided for Red hood to make a pass by the club you had went to.

Which was why he was leaning against his bike, by the alley across the street watching the people entering and exiting. He straightened up as you stumbled out giggling with your friends and he huffed both annoyed and amused at the sight. You were in the middle of saying something, hands waving animatedly when you suddenly paused at the sight of him.

You said something to your friends before you began staggering towards him.

“Reeeeed!” you sang—sang—as you stumbled closer, high heels clacking on the wet pavement, your dress slightly askew and hair tousled from what looked like a hell of a night out.

Jason froze. “Y/N?”

You beamed, oblivious to his tension. “Youuuu know my name,” you hiccuped, staggering toward him with a grin that could short-circuit every neuron in his brain. “God, its not fair that your voice this hot.”

He coughed, straightening. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s late. And dangerous.”

You only grinned, as you staggered closer hand clutching his arm as you pressed yourself up against him. “Mhmm good thing I have a big bad crime lord to keep an eye on me.”

Jason cleared his throat unsure whether he should be amused or offended that you were flirting with him—well Red Hood.

You, meanwhile, were utterly unbothered.

In fact, you leaned closer, pressing up on your toes like you were about to tell him a state secret. “You know,” you whispered conspiratorially, breath warm against the edge of his helmet, “I think about you. Like… a lot.”

Jason swallowed. “Is that so?”

You giggle. “Mhm hm,” Your wandering fingers begin to trail up under his shirt, smile growing as you felt his muscles tense. “All those hard muscles, that sexy voice, you’re like every bad decision I’ve ever wanted to make all rolled into one.”

Jason sucked in a slow breath, jaw tightening behind the helmet. The feel of your fingers skating up his abdomen sent a jolt through him, and he hated—loved—how easily you could fluster him like this. Especially dressed like that. Especially talking like this.

You took advantage of his frozen state, your grin downright wicked as you nudged him backward, step by step, deeper into the alley’s shadows. His back hit the brick wall with a dull thud, but he didn’t resist. He just watched you, tense beneath the armour, like a predator unsure if he was about to pounce—or be devoured.

Your fingers slipped out from beneath his shirt, nails grazing down his chest plate before trailing lower—lower still—until they flirted with the waistband of his tactical pants.

“Y/N—” His voice was a warning. A plea. A prayer. He wasn’t sure which.

“Just relax, Hood… no one’s gotta know,” you purr, voice velvet-draped sin, your smile all teeth and temptation.

Jason’s jaw clenched, his breath catching as your fingers danced at the edge of his restraint—and his patience. He had fought crime lords, torn through ambushes, taken bullets without blinking…but you? You were something else.

The second your fingers brushed against him, Jason snapped.

In one fluid, furious motion, he spun you, pressing you up against the cold brick wall. His chest pressed hard into your back, the weight of him pinning you effortlessly in place. One gloved hand flattened against your stomach to hold you still, and the alley suddenly felt claustrophobic with heat and tension.

“Is this what you want?” he growled against your ear, voice rough and ragged. “To be bent over in a filthy alley and be taken by a criminal like some cheap whore?”

You let out a soft, breathless noise in answer—needy, aching—and pushed back into him deliberately, rubbing back against him. The sound he made in response was low and guttural, somewhere between a curse and a prayer.

The hand not holding you still began to unbuckle his belt as he unzipped himself just enough to set his throbbing length free. Then he gripped the hem of your dress and shoved it up with no patience at all, his fingers trailing fire against your bare skin. You felt the sharp tug as something tore, heard the hiss of his breath as his hand disappeared into his pocket of his jacket—where he stashed your now-ruined panties like a trophy.

The cold air brushing your exposed pussy had you whining, your voice breaking into a desperate whimper. “Please,” you breathed, unable to hold back. “Please.”

One gloved hand reached for your throat while the other wrapped around his hard length, lining himself up before thrusting into you in one smooth motion. You were dripping wet and offered no resistance as he slid inside you with ease, your eyes rolling back as a low groan rumbled from his chest. He was was so long and thick that he filled up every inch of you.

A loud whine tore past your lips and his hand moved to muffle your mouth as he pulled out. “You gotta be quiet doll, you don’t want everyone hearing me ruin you now do you?”

You tried to say something through his hand, but he chose that exact moment to thrust sharply back into you. Whatever words you had died in a needy moan as your cunt clenched down around his cock. The last of his restraint snapped at the sensation, and he began pounding into you in earnest.

Part of him knew how wrong and fucked up this was—you were technically cheating on him with the Red Hood. But at the same time, he was the Red Hood. So were you really cheating? The complication of it all only made him thrust into you harder, taking you rougher than he usually did.

He might’ve felt guilty—might’ve—if not for how much you seemed to love it. His hand shifted from your mouth, gloved fingers curling at your lips. You didn’t hesitate, taking them in eagerly, sucking around them, gagging and drooling as he pushed them deeper.

“That’s it, doll. Take everything I give you,” he groaned, voice low and cooing—a gentle contrast to the brutal pace of his thrusts. “Such a good girl, lettin’ me use your holes.”

The sounds echoing through the alley were utterly obscene—from the wet squelch of your pussy to the sharp slap of skin on skin, and the broken moans spilling past your lips as you begged for more.

“Mmmf—feels… s’good—fuck…” you mumbled around his fingers, the words wet and barely coherent, spit trailing down your chin where his hand kept your mouth stretched open.

“Look at you… so fucked out on my cock” He groaned, “You’re such a little slut taking it so well.”

The bruising grip around your waist shifted to your clit, his fingers rubbing fast, harsh circles that made your hips jerk as you cried out. But with his cock still buried deep inside you and his strength anchoring you in place, there was nowhere to go—no escape—as he worked you toward your orgasm.

It hit you hard and fast—your head falling back, your entire body tensing before collapsing into trembling aftershocks as stars danced across your vision. He kept pounding you through it, relentless, until he finally followed, burying himself deep as he came with a broken curse, emptying himself inside you.

For a long moment, the only sound that filled the silent alley was the sound of both your heavy, ragged breathing as you both fought to catch your breaths and calm your racing hearts. Your palms pressed flat against the brick wall, still trembling, while his body remained close behind—forehead resting against your shoulder, chest rising and falling against your back in rhythm with your own.

Neither of you spoke. Not at first.

Then, finally, the quiet was broken by the low rasp of Red Hood’s voice, “You know,” he drawled, still breathless, “I don’t think your boyfriend would approve of what we just did.”

You let out a breathless, incredulous laugh, your head tilting back just enough for your eyes to find him over your shoulder. “Oh no,” you murmured with mock concern, “you think he’ll be mad?”

Red Hood huffed as he carefully began to pull out of you, his cum immediately dribbling from your well-used hole. “Well, he certainly won’t approve.”

You turned to look at him, your eyes wide with faux innocence, lashes fluttering like you hadn’t just been thoroughly fucked against a brick wall. “Really?” you said, voice light, teasing—dangerously sweet. “Even after the mind-blowing orgasm we both just had?”

Jason froze. “What.”

You tilted your head, your grin only growing. “I know it’s you, Jason.”

Silence.

He blinked, eyes searching yours, as if he’d misheard. “What… how—”

“Baby,” you cut him off with a laugh, soft and incredulous. “You seriously thought I wouldn’t figure it out?”

Jason just stared at you, lips parting slightly. You could see the moment it fully registered, the sharp shift behind his eyes as his mind caught up.

“You knew this whole time?” he asked, almost in disbelief.

You huffed and rolled your eyes as you tug down your dress. “I wouldn’t cheat on you, Jason. Come on. I’ve known for months. You’re not exactly subtle.”

His mouth opened, but you kept going, voice now edged with affection and amused exasperation. “You leave your gear everywhere. Under the bed? Really? That’s your big secret hiding spot?”

Jason let out a groan and dragged the helmet off his head, revealing sweat-mussed hair and a flushed, stunned expression caught somewhere between impressed, exasperated, and undeniably aroused.

“You are such a menace,” he muttered as he pulled you in, his voice low and full of something torn between amusement and affection.

Your hands came up to cup his face, fingers brushing along his jaw, thumbs stroking gently across flushed skin. His eyes flicked shut at the touch, just for a second—like he couldn’t help but melt into you, even after everything.

“Yeah,” you murmured, a soft smile tugging at your lips, “but I’m your menace.”

Your lips met softly, a gentle contrast to everything that had come before. When you finally pulled away, your expression shifted into something sheepish.

“You’re gonna have to carry me,” you mumbled, still breathless. “I don’t think my legs are working after how hard you fucked me.”

He snorted, the sound low and amused, as he smoothly lifted you into his arms without so much as a grunt of effort. “We still have all night,” he said, glancing at you with a wicked glint in his eye. “And trust me… you won’t be walking properly for a week.”

And with that, he carried you off to his bike, so he could take you back to the apartment to get started on round two.

#jason todd fic #jason todd one shot #jason todd x reader #jason todd #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #red hood x you #red hood x reader #red hood #red hood x y/n #redhood x reader #redhood x you #♡ written with love #⋆｡°⟢ the thirsty corner #jason todd smut #red hood smut

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remxedmoon · 7 months ago

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so all you need to do right now is disappear.

HHHHAPPY ISATVERSARY EVERYONE. here’s redraws for every single battle cg in the game. 36 drawings this time around, with 11 of those being custom (though admittedly a good portion of those are edits). combined with the portrait redraws i made back in september, i’ve made 114 redraws for this project! jesus christ! just like those redraws, these are completely free to use!! as long as i’m credited and it’s not for commercial purposes, go wild!! do whatever you want!!!

no i didn’t make these for isat’s 1 year anniversary this is just wildly good timing.

i genuinely can’t fit all of these cgs in one post even with the 30 image limit on browser, but i’ll still try to fit Most of them below the cut (without making this post horrifically long), along with some notes that might be important 👍

okay! once again, i labeled all of the custom art as such in the drive(UPDATE. NNOT TRUE ANYMORE. reformatted file names to be easier to mod in auau. apologies!), but if you want a full list, the customs are hatless siffrin jackpot, bonnie jackpot, bonnie special attack, bigfrin attack, and a bunch of alts which are definitely not related to any projects i’ve been thinking about don’t worry about it. and out of those customs, only like. 3 of them are actually completely from scratch.

while i did my absolute best to keep the aspect ratios completely the same as the originals, there’s 3 exceptions that i just couldn’t get to work.

isabeau’s hair in his special attack cg wouldn’t fit in frame if i kept things completely accurate to the og, so i moved his cg down a bit. it shouldn’t cause any issues with modding or anything, it’ll just appear slightly lower than it does in game. alas…

isabeau’s sleeve and mirabelle’s hair made their jackpot sprites a little larger than the originals? i’m hoping this doesn’t have too much of an effect (since the jackpot sprites have inconsistent sizes) but i can’t test this myself unfortunately. aaa feel free to let me know on discord if any problems arise!!

i managed to fix these, so they aren’t going to cause problems now, but my original drawings for mirabelle and siffrin in the final attack scene were a pain in the ass to fix. mirabelle’s sprite was slightly too talk to fit in frame and siffrin’s hat whacked bonnie in the face while i was editing everyone together. i’m only mentioning this because it took like an hour and a half to fix them and finish the scene.

all that aside, these were a fucking BLAST to work on. apparently this ended up taking 57 hours over exactly 10 days. which is a little worrying if you do the math on that but somehow i have not burnt myself out. i will be doing enemies at some point!!! but probably not for a little bit. i think my friends will actually kill me if i don’t take a break.

once again, happy birthday isat. you’ve ruined my life and i wouldn’t have it any other way (silly).

also, on an actual serious note, this little timeloop game has genuinely changed my life for the better? you guys are probably sick of hearing it at this point (or maybe not, i don’t talk about myself That Much. i hope), but i was practically a ghost for about 2 years before joining this fandom. it’s a little surreal to suddenly have friends (plural!!!) and people who Care about me, or even know i exist, honestly. it’s weird!! in a good way!!!

i don’t think i would’ve ever come back to social media if this community wasn’t so welcoming. i’ve met a lot of really great people through this game!!! so, uh, thank you isat, i guess. here’s to another year.

#marshdoodles #isat #in stars and time #isat spoilers #also for full transparency. the sadness death redraw is effectively just a trace job. i’m not super happy with it because of thag #but i think i would be Killed if i tried to redo it. i dunno. maybe ill try to change it when i do sadnesses. maybe not.#besides that GOD im really happy with how these turned out #bigfrin was a last minute addition but i think he turned out fantastic #bonnie’s special attack isn’t my Favorite but i think it turned out pretty well considering the Struggle #gggod. trying to make a heavily foreshortened pose that still feels dynamic is really hard. how did id5 do this.#also don’t. worry about the Extra custom sprites that’re in there. i’m not planning anything.#happy isatversary everyone.#i blow away in the wind #isat redraw project

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chow0w · 16 days ago

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Hi, I love you’re redesigns so much, and I am wondering if my favorite character (Waspy) is on the character waitlist or if you have already redesigned her?

Thank you!! I actually tried to do her a few times before, but it was kind of a struggle since I want her to be super devious but never knew how - until today. @kingfisher298 and @nickyblurrymind33 also wanted to see, so I am proud to finally announce my redesign of Queen Wasp! I apologize in advance.

Edit: (putting this up here so nobody misses it, but I was informed this morning that the person who’s request I replied to is actually an extremely problematic individual. I didn’t know this at the time and would’ve blocked/used someone else’s request if I did, and I deeply apologize for this mistake.)

Getting the obvious out of the way, yes, she is creepy. Very creepy. When making this redesign, illustrating Queen Wasp in the scariest way possible was the main thing on my mind. I wanted to create a design which would accurately reflect (and justify) every thought Blue has ever had in regards to Wasp, as well as truly vilifying her even down to the first impression. She is described as incredibly tall and lanky: and as much as I tried to make this visible through her build, I did end up shortening her neck + making her head bigger to give her a more passively intimidating vibe. I think it would be way creepier if she was so large that she could still tower over other dragons even with the posture I drew her with. I imagine the bottom of her mouth is about how tall an average dragon is.

I took a lot of inspiration from the ichneumonid wasp, a parasitic insect which A) looks disturbing, and B) lays its eggs in caterpillars. Not only is that horrifying in itself - I also thought it fit Wasp very well, given that she injects hivewing eggs with the breath of evil to gain control over them. Her ribcage and bones are well-defined through her patterns, since I had her plant-only diet in mind when creating this and imagined she would be rather malnourished. Outside of the oodles of spikes I added to her limbs and spine, I also decided on giving her three stingers instead of one - because one isn't enough for someone as evil as her. (I also thought that the single stinger looked really stupid while I drew this.) You may have noticed the breath of evil along her stinger! Whilst I did originally plan on making this a consistent feature in her design, I waited until the end to add it and by that time it just clashed really hard with the other details in place.

I'm a fan of how Queen Wasp was presented as a villain, and I really wish she stayed the main antagonist through the entirety of arc 3. I was really hoping to get more story on social justice for silkwings + a chrysalis-focused rebellion type thing, but I'm not entirely unhappy with the ending since at least we got to meet Freedom. Either way, this redesign is definitely one of the more abstract, but I'm personally pretty happy with how it turned out!

As always, thank you all so much for your constant support! It's super cool how quickly this community has grown, and I'm so thankful to all of you for tuning in every weekend to see what I made! To anyone who'd like to join, here's the link to my server! We have tons of art-related stuff, as well as an active contest with cash prizes (You also have the option to get a free commission instead, but let's be so forreal. You probably want money. I respect that.)

If you want to submit a request for redesign, check out my pinned post to see which WoF characters are already on the waitlist - or head straight to my inbox and ask!

later (─‿‿─)♡

#wings of fire #wof #art #character design #wof redesign #hivewing wof #wof hivewing #hivewing #queen wasp wof #wof queen wasp #queen wasp #pantala

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synvil · 5 months ago

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if ur up for it maybe a smutty part 2 for the tiktok trend where reader doesnt say ily back? have a great day!!

say it back pt. 2 // bf! rafe cameron

a/n: my first request!! thank you anonnie! (☆´3｀) i hope you enjoy, even if it’s pretty short!

synopsis : rafe teaches you to think twice before playing a prank.

warnings : nsfw ahead! penetration, crying, spanking, cum swallowing, etc.

tiktok trends masterlist !

“screw that, i’ll spend the next couple hours pounding those three words into your damn mind so you won’t ‘forget’ again.”

“w-wai—“ ignoring your protests, you gasp when he suddenly brings his hands down to the waistband of your bottoms and rips them down your legs without hesitation. “rafe!”

rafe unbuckles his belt and lowers his slacks just low enough to let his already hardening erection spring free. at the sight of you backing up, trying to appease him by raising your hands defensively and explaining, rafe growls low and grips onto your ankle and drags you down the edge of the couch before flipping you onto your stomach, pulling your hips so your ass hung in the air.

and that’s how you spent the next hour, your face a teary, drooling mess as your cry out endlessly, your arms behind your back, wrists pinned together by rafe’s hand as he pounds into your pretty little pussy mercilessly, his other hand recording the sight.

“great, barry’s callin’. how should i explain to him for my absence, hm?” rafe condescendingly smirks as he waves his phone in your direction. “should i answer the call and let him hear the reason why?”

your breathing is ragged but you slur a weak, whimpered no, pleading for him to deny the call. “r-rafey.. ‘m sorry! please-“

rafe grunts, unamused at your apology as he tosses the phone onto the cushion beside your head, the device still vibrating due to barry’s calling. “too late. should’ve thought about the consequences, sweetheart.” rafe mocks, his hand delivering a sweet sounding smack across your cheeks as he thrust his hips deep against yours, making you moan loudly, your body trembling from the nth orgasm in the last hour.

rafe could feel his climax approaching, his own breathing becoming heavier as he groans out, feeling his hips pick up the pace.

“do you remember what you say to me, now?” you’re too exhausted and a blubbering sobbing mess, breasts and body shaking with every thrust he gives to register his words. upon no answer, rafe spanks you again making you cry out and jump. “i asked you a question, darling.”

“y-yes; i remember!”

rafe squeezes the flesh in his hand and he grins. “you gonna play that little joke on me again?”

“n-no, i promise- i won’t ever again.”

taking your words as genuine, rafe suddenly pulls out and pulls on your body to bring you to the ground and guides your head to his throbbing cock. “prove it. be a good girl and do your job.”

understanding what he needed, you fall to your knees and bring your lips to his tip and lick it, before fully wrapping your mouth around him and rafe hitches a breath.

his hand jerks himself for a few minutes before he slips a moan out of his lips and seconds later, his cum spurts into your mouth, you instinctively swallowing every drop.

he pants lightly before pulling out and crouching down, cupping your cheek lightly. “you alright, sweetheart?”

you sniffle, wiping your eyes free from your tears and you nod, looking up at him and he smiles softly, using his thumb to wipe any stray ones.

“i’m sorry if i went a little too rough, baby.” he murmurs and you shake your head. “i’m okay, rafey.”

“good. i love you, [name].”

“i love you more, rafe.”

a/n : not edited!! but thank you so much for the request anon, i hope you liked it and i apologize it’s so short!! feel free to request more <3

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gothcsz · 3 months ago

Text

Flex | Your Favorite Pedro Boy x F!Reader | ~2.3k wc | Explicit. Minors DNI. | ACCOMPANYING ART BY @/KING-SIMP

Summary: Hooking up with the guy you picked up at a party.

Tags: smut, pwp, pussy eating, face riding, dirty talk, bicep/arm worship, cum eating, lots of kissing, a good time all around, no use of y/n, reader is afab and able-bodied, no physical descriptions, barely beta'd/edited so any typos/grammar mistakes are of my own doing and i apologize in advance, if i missed any other tags pls let me know okay, thanks!

A/N: we're all going feral over pedro's biceps so i had to write this. for the culture. i couldn't decide which character of his to write it about, so i tried to write this as ambiguous as possible so that the majority could delude alongside me 🙂‍↕️ (for me, it's our beloved general marcus a because oof the brainrot for that man is real asf) thank you to everyone who has been horny about this with me today, i am so glad we are all on the same page🖤 i hope you guys like it and as always, please let me know what you think and which p-boy you imagined, hehe enjoy cariños. 🖤

“C’mon, I can feel you holding back.”

Your hips keep their steady rhythm, grinding against his face, his tongue relentless against your clit while his nose presses deep inside you. The curve of it sends shockwaves through your body, your eyes rolling back as you ride his mouth.

He's right—you are holding back. Not because you want to, but because you're afraid of what will happen if you let go completely.

“Feels s-so good just like this,” you whimper, nails digging into the firm muscle of his thighs. His cock, flushed and leaking, rests on his stomach, aching for attention. But he told you not to worry about him—that his pleasure comes from making you fall apart on his tongue, from turning your brain into nothing but static and heat.

And while you are tempted to lower your face, wrap your lips around his swollen, red tip and suck the soul right out of his cock, you really cannot function straight with how expertly he is working your cunt.

“I want more.” He growls, the bite of his grip into your supple skin making you hiss in pain then moan in bliss when he picks up the intensity and pace of his mouth, forcing you to move the way he wants you to.

You let it happen.

The sounds spilling from your lips fill the dimly lit room, the glow from the bedside lamp casting everything in a warm, filthy haze. You keep going, ecstasy cresting higher and higher, until sobs rip from your throat and your body convulses, shaking in his grasp. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t slow down—just keeps that perfect pace until tears slip from your eyes and drip onto his thighs. He’s wrung you out completely.

“Mmmm, you taste so good, baby.”

His voice is thick with satisfaction, but you barely register it. All you can focus on is the slow drag of his calloused hands over your skin as he shifts you off his face, rolling you onto your back. You stare dazedly at the ceiling fan, watching its lazy rotations while you try to remember how to breathe.

He grunts, sitting up, licking his lips and wiping his nose of your essence before he crawls over you, bracing himself on his strong forearms. Even through the haze, you take a moment to admire his handsome features—the sharp curve of his jaw, his facial hair, those beautiful brown eyes that had stolen your breath the moment they locked onto yours.

“You are the hottest man I’ve ever seen in my life.”

He chuckles, leaning down to kiss you passionately, slipping his tongue in your mouth and you moan at the taste of your pussy on his lips, mingling with his spit.

“And you’re so fucking pretty.”

Your cheeks heat, skin still buzzing, a smile tugging at your lips as you try to hide your gleeful expression from this man you only met this afternoon at a mutual friend’s party.

You turn your head, gaze sweeping over his exposed arms. The dim light casts deep shadows, accentuating every carved muscle, the sinewy stretch of tendons beneath his tanned skin. His biceps flex subtly as he holds himself above you, powerful yet controlled, his weight perfectly balanced as he lowers himself to your neck. His lips press hot and teasing against your throat, the rough graze of his stubble sending a shiver down your spine.

His body fits effortlessly between your thighs, and when the thick underside of his cock glides against your used, aching pussy, a fresh wave of lust crashes over you.

Your hands move before your mind catches up, fingers sliding over his arms, claiming each one. You trace the dips and ridges, marveling at the warmth of his skin, the scattering of freckles dotting his forearms, the small scars and imperfections that tell stories you want to hear later—much later while wrapped in his embrace. Right now, all you care about is how impossibly good he feels beneath your fingertips, how every flex and twitch makes your cunt clench around nothing.

You’re so lost in your worship of him that you barely register the words murmured against your neck, his breath hot and teasing while you grind against each other.

“What’s got you so distracted?” He rasps a bit tauntingly, licking the shell of your ear before nipping at your lobe, pulling back and following your gaze.

“These arms…” you moan, arching into him, your breasts pressing against the hard planes of his chest as you tilt closer to the one nearest you. Your lips part, kissing the inside of his wrist, mouth open and wanting.

“Yeah?” His tone is dripping with cocky satisfaction. You ignore it, too lost in the pulse beating beneath your tongue, the intoxicating mix of salt and skin as you bite down just enough to make him grunt.

“Fucking hell, just look at you,” he tuts, his eyes dark with hunger. His hips roll, grinding his cock against your slick folds, but you’re too enraptured with his arms to care. Your other hand strokes the length of his opposite bicep, fingers squeezing, feeling the tension coiled within. You moan softly, delirious, rubbing your cheek against him like you could somehow get closer.

“All fucked out and slobbering all over my wrist.”

His words make your stomach tighten, exhilaration coiling deep, and you don’t even try to stop yourself when you turn your attention to his other arm, kissing, sucking, worshiping. He watches, letting you indulge, letting you lose yourself in the way his body makes you fall apart without him even trying. He’s amused by it, his expression equal parts fondness and possessive satisfaction.

You’re riding the high of being under one of the sexiest men to ever grace this fucking planet.

When you finally pull back, a thin string of spit trailing between your lips and his skin, you look up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, a slow, sultry smile curving your mouth. It sparks something in him—an idea.

“I know what I want you to do next.”

Your brow lifts slightly in curiosity. He leans in, brushing a kiss over the tip of your nose, soft, deceptively sweet, before pulling away entirely. The loss of his warmth makes you pout.

Then he settles back against the pillows, getting comfortable—purposefully flexing his arms, making every muscle ripple beneath his skin. Your breath catches, heart pounding, thighs clenching involuntarily. He sees it. Smirks.

“C’mere.” He beckons.

Like a cartoon character floating toward a pie on a windowsill, you crawl toward him, heart-eyed and desperate, ready to sink down on his cock and ride him until either of you can breathe. But he stops you.

“Not there, baby. Up here.” He flicks his chin towards his left bicep and you look at him quizzically despite the intrigue that beats at your pussy.

“What—”

“Now.”

A command, rough and final.

You moan, nodding, unbothered by how desperate you must look as you reposition yourself, thighs bracketing his thick arm. He helps you adjust until everything aligns just right, until your drenched pussy hovers over the sculpted muscle, the heat of his skin radiating and caressing your swollen clit.

“Get yourself off on it.”

His free hand drifts down, wrapping around his cock, fingers tightening around the thick shaft. His fat thumb circles the swollen head, smearing precum in slow, teasing strokes.

This is the hottest thing you've ever experienced. There's no way this is real.

But you don’t waste time questioning it—not when you’re in the middle of the filthiest, most intoxicating hook-up of your life.

Bracing yourself with one hand on his broad shoulder, the other groping your breast, you lower yourself onto his bicep. The first grind against the smooth heat of his skin is heavenly.

“Oh my fucking god—”

Your moan is wrecked, unabashedly obscene, your nails digging into his shoulder as your slick coats his arm, making it easier to rock against him. Each movement sends a fresh pulse of pleasure shooting through your body, your swollen clit dragging over the hard, flexing muscle.

He groans, low and appreciative, before letting go of his cock and bringing his palm up to your lips, lust darkened eyes boring into yours. A silent request.

You lazily smile, licking your lips before gathering saliva in your mouth. Then, deliberately, you spit into his open palm, watching as his expression flares with hunger. You wink, but before you can fully revel in your power over him, his bicep twitches—his arm bending at the elbow as his fingers tighten around your ass.

“Oh!” A sharp yelp escapes you, thighs squeezing involuntarily at the sudden jolt of sensation.

He smirks at your reaction, smug and thoroughly entertained, his wet hand returning to his cock. And then he starts stroking himself.

The lewd sounds of slicked skin meeting skin fill the room, each pump of his fist producing an obscene slap against his pelvis. You watch, transfixed, as his other arm flexes, veins and tendons bulging with every controlled stroke.

His bicep expands and contracts beneath you, a living, breathing thing you can't stop grinding against. His balls jiggle slightly from the sheer intensity of his motions, his whole body a display of primal, uninhibited rhapsody.

You pinch your nipple, humping his leg and wailing out like a pussy in heat, the visual of him fucking his fist enough to send you over but you want to continue to enjoy this because fuck—is it so hot.

And then there’s the feel of his other hand gripping your ass, the flesh spilling through the divots of his knuckles. His breath is ragged, brows furrowed, a thin bead of sweat trailing down his temple. His bottom lip is caught between his teeth, and those pretty brown eyes are locked on you, watching the way you’re going feral on him.

“I’m, oh fuck me,” you break out into a litany of curses before you’re able to fucking think. “I’m so close— ohmygodI’mgonnacome.” Your words run together, spine pulling taught as your orgasm possesses your body.

He laughs, deep and throaty, the sound tapering into a drawn-out groan as his own release lingers on the precipice. His jaw clenches, his body coiling tight.

“Go on,” he growls. “Make a fucking mess.”

And that’s all it takes for you to free fall.

Your thighs clamp around his arm and the motherfucker flexes his bicep again, dragging out your pleasure until you’re nearly delirious. Your hips jerk, fingers yanking at your nipple, riding the euphoric wave until every ounce of bliss is wrung from your body. Your nails rake down his shoulder and across his collarbone, leaving angry red streaks against his brown skin.

“Fuck—” His own release follows, a strangled groan ripping from his throat as hot ropes of cum spill onto his stomach, coating his happy trail, dripping into the dark curls at the base of his cock. His strokes turn brutal, merciless, chasing the last shudders of his orgasm as his grip tightens on your ass, fingers digging deep enough to leave sore spots in the shape of his fingers.

The roaring in your ears dulls, the aftershocks making your limbs tremble. It takes you a moment to realize your eyes had shut completely, the intensity too much to bear. When you finally blink them open, the world is a blur, dark spots dancing in your vision as you struggle to catch your breath.

And when your gaze finally finds his, he’s already watching you—sated, wrecked, and smug as hell.

“Holy shit.”

“That just about sums it up.” His voice is deeper now, having been dragged through the same pleasure-drenched haze as you. You tilt your head, looking down at him, his handsome face making your heart flutter.

“How’re you feeling, baby?”

“Real good.” You giggle, voice airy, light—completely fucked out. You don’t even try to hide it.

He smirks, ego soaring, as it should be. He watches as you shift, your spent body moving off his bicep, your clit still pulsing, raw from how desperately you’d used him. You’re ready to collapse, to melt into the sheets and revel in the afterglow, but then—

Whistle.

A sharp, commanding sound, followed by a tilt of his head toward his arm. Like you’re a pet he’s calling back to heel.

“Can’t just leave it like that.” His tone is lazy, laced with amusement. He wipes the remnants of his release from his hand onto the comforter, utterly unbothered, then reaches for you. His fingers cup the back of your neck, firm yet gentle as he tugs you down, guiding you nose-first into the mess you’d left behind.

“Clean it up.”

And just as you’ve done all night, you obey.

Your tongue flicks out, kitten-licking at his skin, tasting the remnants of your pleasure. The sharp, musky tang floods your senses, making you moan softly as you lap it up, savoring the proof of your own ruin.

“Good girl.” His voice is pure indulgence, his thumb stroking slow, lazy circles against the back of your neck as you work.

Once he’s satisfied, his grip shifts, applying just enough pressure to guide you lower, down his torso, toward the mess he left on himself.

You don’t hesitate.

Your tongue flattens against his stomach, dragging through his release, collecting every drop. You hum at the taste—salt, sweat, and something distinctly him. The coarse hair of his happy trail tickles your lips as you clean him up, the rise and fall of his stomach twitching beneath your touch.

Then, just as you reach his softening cock, you pause—just for a second—before pressing a slow, filthy kiss to the head. A final, lingering seal to your work.

He inhales sharply.

Satisfied, you begin your way back up, lips trailing over his body, over the ridges of muscle, the dip of his collarbone, up the strong column of his throat, until you finally reach his mouth.

The kiss is slow, unhurried, all tongue and warmth, swapping spit and cum like it’s second nature. Swollen lips on swollen lips, bodies still buzzing in the aftershock.

When you finally pull apart, eyes locked, your mouth curls into a flirty smirk.

“What was your name again?”

@almostempty . @auteurdelabre . @ovaryacted . @miss-oranje-disco-dancer . @pepperstories . @greenwitchfromthewoods . @maiamore . @pedrohoe04 . @natalieispunk . @thewisesalmon . @bitchesuntitled . @puddles221b . @swankyorange . @bbyanarchist . @thottiewinemom . @heyhihello-4771 . @persephone-girl . @danaehldy . @sunflowerfive . @libre-sol . @harriedandharassed . @untamedheart81 . @moel-jiller . @honeyedmiller . @alexxavicry . @oldenoughtoknowbettersstuff . @almodovarispunk . @southernbe . @readingiskeepingmegoing . @pedrito-is-punk7. @syd-djarin . @la-vie-est-une-fleur29 . @lover-of-books-and-tea . @mysterious-moonstruck-musings . @almostfoxglove . @thundermartini . @pigeonmama . @piercethevic03 . @marisemonteiroo . @picketniffler . @getitoutofmymindwrites . @bunniboo0015 . @kirsteng42 . @ivuravix . @joelmillerisapunk . @theestorm . @pasc4lfuzz . @manuymesut . @biapascal . @mandaloriankait .

#pedro pascal #ppcu smut #ppcu fanfiction #kat's writing.

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charliemwrites · 11 months ago

Text

Part 5 of Mister(s) Steal Your Girl

Long awaited, but no Johnny smut just yet. Soon, I promise. (And Kyle will be back. It's been so long since he's gotten to smooch our dear reader.)

Also! A little reminder than you can check the queue to see what I plan to post for next. I try to update it often as the worms wiggle. Next I plan to do the final chapter of Greater Bad. (Unless I get my not-so-secret, no-longer-a-surprise oneshot out first)

Lastly! Please note that I wrote the "posts" from his perspective. So inconsistencies with the actual story and any grammar/spelling errors were purposeful or for "authenticity".

Content: Brandon.

r/CakeEater _OnBrand_ I asked my fiancé for an open relationship before marriage. It worked. A while ago I posted on r/adultery about the affairs (yes, multiple) I was having behind my then-gf’s back. We’d already been dating for ~4 years and I was seeing one of my coworkers (my “work wife”) regularly and one of her coworkers on and off. People on my other post were critical and called me all sorts of things like selfish and pig. I know it’s not traditional, but I genuinely don’t think I could ever be satisfied by one woman. My work wife (Rachel) and fiance’s coworker (Lucy) provide things my fiancé just can’t but I still love my fiancé. She’s the woman I’m going to spend the rest of my life with. When I posted on r/adultery I was trying to figure out how to propose without her finding out. I knew she’d expect me to help with stuff and possibly want to look at my phone more often. It would have been harder to sneak off to meet up with Lucy or Rachel with wedding planning and I was sick of being stressed she would find out. Some nicer people on the post suggested I ask for an open relationship. I took their advice and sat her down to sell the idea. It’s a good thing I’m so good at sales (top 3% in my company for 5 years in a row) because she agreed. Yes, actually agreed. At first she got kind of pale and her eyes got really big and blank. I thought for sure she was about to start crying and run off. Maybe even kick me out. She doesn’t really get angry but she gets upset and it freaks me out. After I explained everything about how good it would be for us though, she agreed. This is my official unlimited hallpass. I’ve been seeing Rachel on weekends and Lucy once or twice during the week for drinks. Tonight I’m going to sign up for every dating site I can. Tinder, Bumble, Hinge. If anyone has other suggestions, I’ll check those out too. Fiance has been kind of off but I think it’s just an adjustment period. Sometimes I can tell she’s been crying but she hasn’t come to me about it so she’s probably just being emotional about all the changes. At least she’s got our house to focus on while she gets used to things. I feel a little bad about running out every night but she’s just so mopey and sad all the time and it’s not enjoyable to be around. I know she probably feels like I’m abandoning her a little but once she starts getting back to normal I’ll spend time with her again. You really can have your cake (all the cakes heh) and eat them too. Edit: no, I never told her that I already had Lucy and Rachel and I’m not going to. What good would it do? She’s already agreed to an open relationship and telling her that I didn’t have permission first would just hurt her for no reason.

Kyle’s been gone for two (long, lonely) weeks when he finally gets a chance to call. So far, he’s only been able to send scattered texts at odd hours. Always something sweet – telling you he’s alright, or that he’s thinking of you. Sometimes you even catch him for a brief exchange before he apologizes and “goes dark” again.

Not that you begrudge it. This is part and parcel of dating him and you knew that going in. You’re not complaining when he’s putting his life on the line so that the public can live in blissful peace.

That doesn’t stop you from missing him though. His hugs, his smile. Getting his voice - even roughened by distance - is a nice compromise though.

“How have you been holding up, chickadee?” he asks after the initial reassurance that he’s whole and hale.

“Easier this time!” you answer proudly. “I know what to expect with you gone and Johnny’s good company.”

“Yeah?” he asks, sounding pleased.

You can just imagine him now, leaning his hip against the nearest surface, arms crossed over his broad chest. He tends to duck his head when he smiles, and you unintentionally grin to yourself, thinking of him hiding into his phone. God, you miss him.

“Mhmm! We found a board game bar that you’re going to love. Oh, and we’re going to the Hay Festival this weekend.”

He hums. “I’m sorry I can’t be there to take you, luv, but I knew Johnny would be good to you.”

More than good to you, really. There’s not been a day he doesn’t call to check up on you - if he doesn’t see you in person, that is. Dinner, movies, coffee. He’s somehow both a gentleman and an incorrigible flirt, but only with you. He’s nothing more than polite to anyone else, keeping his focus on you and whatever the two of you are doing.

You don’t know what to do with the undivided attention. If you didn’t know better…

“You two are getting close,” Kyle observes.

“I think so,” you admit, then hesitate. “Is… that okay?”

“‘Course, luv. I’m glad.”

You blink. “You are?”

“He’s my best mate and you’re my best girl.”

An odd pang of anxiety pierces your chest. Johnny calls you that too. His “best girl.” You love hearing it - but maybe you shouldn’t?

“It… doesn’t bother you? That we’re spending so much time together.”

He snorts softly, but it’s not derisive. It’s a noise he makes whenever he thinks you’re being silly, but his voice comes out soft and warm. Not an ounce of condescension.

“No, baby, I’m not fussed. You spend your time with whoever you want, however you want. Yeah?”

Your chest floods with warmth. “Okay.”

“There’s a love. I’ve got a brief, so I have to go. I’ll call soon as I can.”

“Be safe, Ky.”

“Do my best. Give Soap a smooch for us, aye?”

You blink as he hangs up. That’s a new one.

You ponder over it while packing on Thursday night. Was it just a joke? A tease at the little crush you’ve developed for Johnny?

Because it is a crush, you know it is. It’s impossible not to be attracted to him. Not with that smile, that laugh, the goofy humor and sweet mannerisms. He still sends you flowers every few weeks - just as the previous ones are about to die. It’s so thoughtful; you’ve started feeling a bit warm every time you look at them.

But you feel greedy, being even remotely interested in anyone else. You have Kyle and Brandon (even if you two are going through a… patch) and that should be enough for you. Shouldn’t it? You’ve never been with more than one person at a time before; it took you weeks to shake the compulsory guilt when you first met Kyle. It feels almost unforgivably audacious to want Johnny too, especially since he’s Kyle’s best mate.

Still… Kyle’s not a jealous or passive-aggressive guy. You’ve been with him long enough now that you know he’d just tell you outright if he was unhappy about something. And he’s been with you long enough that he can surely tell you’re more than a bit fond of Johnny.

Maybe that’s why he made the joke about “smooching” him.

Regardless, you want to talk to him about it. Things always make sense when you think out loud to him. His levelheaded and practical approach to difficult topics always straightens your panic spirals out into neat lines.

Plus, it’s not as comforting to hold your own hand. (God, when is he getting back?)

“Where are you going?”

You blink up at Brandon, folded pajamas in hand.

“The Hay Festival,” you answer.

Speaking of - you slip past him into the bathroom. He doesn’t follow, rooted to the spot spinning his phone around in his hands.

“Alone?”

You snort. “Of course not, I’m going with a friend.”

The allergy pills are at the bottom of the medicine basket beneath the sink. You really need to organize it the next time Johnny’s too busy to hang out. There’s no way you need three bottles of paracetamol.

“I need that suitcase.”

You toss the bottle in and pivot for the dresser. “What for?”

He shifts, eyes sliding away. “An… overnight.”

Ah. That’s what he’s calling it now?

You snatch a few (too many) pairs of underwear from the dresser.

“Just bring them here,” you say over your shoulder.

There’s a long, tense beat of silence but you’re too busy rummaging for socks to break it first. Will it be too warm for thigh-highs? Eh, you’ll go with the sheer ones; the little lace roses match one of your dresses anyway.

“Bring who here?” Brandon asks slowly.

When you turn, he looks paler than usual. You shrug, trying to project casual comfort.

This is a totally normal and reasonable conversation to have. Just a couple in an open relationship, discussing a stranger coming to the house for a shag. Nothing to make a fuss over.

“Whoever you need the suitcase for? I know you’ve had people over before anyway, and I’ll be gone all weekend.”

He stutters, color returning to his face in bright pink blooms. “Why do you think I’ve had people over before?”

You arch an eyebrow. “I do the laundry, remember? And there was lipstick on one of the wine glasses.”

That had sent you into a tizzy at the time, disgusted that some stranger was in your bed, with your fiancé. You washed the sheets twice on the hottest setting and tossed in a bit of bleach for good measure. Hadn’t been able to look at him the whole week - not that he was there much to not look at.

Now, though, you seem to have adjusted to the idea, even if you’re still not thrilled. Brandon can have his… whoever over, and you’ll goof around with Johnny in Wales.

“Just toss the bedding in the wash afterwards,” you add.

“I thought you do the laundry,” he sniffs.

“I’m not traveling all day just to do chores when I get home,” you answer. He does a double take like you’ve started speaking a new language. “You’ll be here all weekend, I’m sure you’ll have time.”

He opens his mouth, and you can tell already that he’s about to argue - though you don’t really know what about. It’s not like he can’t do laundry or dishes, after all. He lived alone before you moved in together.

Thankfully, his phone distracts him before he can form the words. He spins away to tap at the screen and shuffles out of the room, shoulders till tense. You go back to packing and teasing Johnny about the amount of hair gel he’ll bring.

Friday afternoon can’t come fast enough. Even though you’ve taken a half day from work, the few hours seem to drag. You’re practically daydreaming about the food and drinks, music and activities. There’s a baker’s dozen art stalls you want to check out as well, and a gift to pick out for Kyle…

“Hope yer thinkin’ o’ me when ye make tha’ face.”

Your head snaps around so fast, you nearly give yourself whiplash. Johnny grins down at you in all his casually handsome glory – ripped jeans, green tee, and brown boots. Angels are singing somewhere, you think. Or maybe that’s just your nosy coworkers ogling from their own cubicles.

The reality of him sinks in a moment later and you leap up from your cushy chair – and right into his arms. He’s like a furnace compared to the cool, conditioned air of your office, a welcome source of warmth for your chilly fingers.

“What are you doing here?” you giggle. “Who let a rowdy guy like you in?”

He smells like bergamot and pine. It takes active thought to resist pressing your face into the crook of his neck. It looks cozy there.

As always, he squeezes you a bit tighter just before letting go.

“Hey now, Marcy’s a discerning lady. She knows a fine gentleman when she sees one.”

You snort, belied by the smile curling your lips. “She may need new glass then.”

“Och, don’t go talkin’ poor about my second-best gal now.”

“Is it that easy to get in your good graces?” you scoff, glancing at the time on your computer. It’s later than you expected; no wonder he came up to retrieve you. You spent so long daydreaming that you’ve lost track of time.

“Aw don’ be green, dove, you’re still my number one. Send ye flowers ‘n all.”

You roll your eyes at him. “Yeah, and now I’m wondering just how special that is.”

He stands close, proclaiming his case for how obviously special you are while you shut everything down for the weekend. You’re only half listening to the bit, admittedly. Mostly just basking in your excitement for the mini road trip and the weekend to come. You have no doubt that it’s going to be fun, even if it would be better with Kyle along too.

“Where are you headed off to?” Lucy asks.

“Hay Festival,” you answer shortly.

You’ve never been a big fan of Lucy, but lately she’s been insufferable. Talking over you during meetings, leaving you out of emails, throwing away papers at the printer. (Okay, you haven’t seen her do that last one, but you know.) Worst of all, she can help but make backhanded comments about every flower delivery.

“You’re not taking Brandon?” she simpers. “Something wrong?”

“He’s hanging out with a friend this weekend too,” you correct, “and he doesn’t like hay.”

“Shame that,” Johnny adds, sounding like it’s not a shame at all.

You haven’t told him much about Brandon – but you’re sure that Kyle has. From the face Johnny makes the rare times your fiancé comes up in conversation, he doesn’t think much of Brandon.

“Have fun you two!” your manager, Selene, calls.

You wave and shoot Lucy one last, unimpressed glance before stepping onto the elevator with Johnny.

r/CakeEater _OnBrand_ My fiancé is going on a weekend getaway with another man. I’ve posted in r/adultery and r/cakeeater before. I’m not looking for judgement or insults here. I really just want advice.

A little context: my fiancé and I are in an open relationship and it’s been like this for a few months now. I originally asked her to ope the relationship and for a while she was weird about it but lately she’s been getting sbetter. I thought she was finally getting used to me going out with other women and things were getting back to normal.

A few weeks ago, I noticed she was on her phone more. Like, all the time. Even at dinner when she used to be really picky about phones at the table. One day I came home from work and she was talking on the phone to someone. Giggling and laughing. When I turned the corner she was kind of blushing too. It kind of bothered me but I figured she was talking to a friend and just hot from cooking or something.

Lucy texted me pissed off one day, asking why I was sending my fiancé flowers but not her. I told her I hadn’t sent any flowers. I think they’re way too expensive for how long they realistically last and that they take up a lot of unnecessary space. But I thought it was weird that someone was sending my fiancé flowers and got kind of uncomfortable. That’s a pretty romantic gesture and her family isn’t the type to randomly send flowers either.

I tried taking her out on a date but she was all mopey again and turned her phone to ‘do not disturb’ so I wouldn’t even see if she was texting someone. We don’t have much to talk about now. I love her but she’s not a good storyteller or into very interesting things. All her ‘funny stories’ are just mundane things that happen during the day. We’ve run out of interesting topics about because we’ve been together so long. (That’s why I like having more than one partner.)

Yesterday she randomly started packing for a trip. I don’t even think she was planning to tell me until I asked her. She was packing a bunch of cute clothes too. Like dresses and tights and things like that. Stuff she only used to wear on our dates. I asked who she was going with and she just said ‘a friend’ which is weird because she would usually say the name of someone even if I don’t remember who they are.

Well today Lucy sent me a picture of my fiancé leaving her job with some guy. I couldn’t see his face because he was turned away, but I could see the side of my fiancé’s face and she was smiling at him. I got this awful sinking feeling in my chest like it was hard to breathe. It took me a few minutes to process that she’s going away for a weekend with a complete stranger.

Doesn’t she know how dangerous that is? Where did she even meet this guy? They’ll be gone all weekend so are they sharing a room? A bed? I nearly threw up thinking all these things as I called her.

I asked her to cancel her plans and come home. She seemed confused and reminded me that her plans were with someone else and it would be rude to ditch last minute. I told her I wanted to spend the weekend with her and that I’d been missing her. She seemed surprised and said that she’d see me on Sunday night, but she was looking forward to the festival with her ‘friend’ and wanted to go. As a last ditch effort I asked if her friend was more important than me, nearly begging at that point. She must have heard the desperation in my voice, but she just told me that she was already on the road and it was too late.

My fiancé doesn’t like lying but it’s hard to believe this guy was just a friend. Even if she sees him as a friend I know how men think and I doubt he sees her the same way.

She said some other weird stuff before she left about having someone over while she was gone. I don’t get it. How could she just casually invite someone else into our house like that? Has she had other people over? Is she dating now?

I’m not sure what to do. I don’t like that she put this trip over me. Should I talk to her about how bad this makes me feel? Should I call again and tell her to come home more forcefully? Am I blowing all of this out of proportion?

Edit: she doesn’t know that I’ve been seeing Lucy. I haven’t told my fiancé about any of the women I’ve been seeing. (mostly just Lucy and Rachel. I’ve done a lot of texting through apps and gone on a bunch of first place, but most women don’t put out right away and I usually can’t be bothered to get to know them better). Even then, I wouldn’t tell her about lucy. They don’t get along and never have. It would cause a lot of unnecessary drama.

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#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #misters steal your girl #kyle gaz x reader #john soap mactavish #healthy polyamory #brandon the crash dummy

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taegimood · 1 year ago

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mj!! i just saw a tiktok thats like "check ur tone before talking to my girl / watch how u talking to her" and neow i need urbig brained delicious thoughts (sfw or nsfw idc!) on possesive/protective!txt !!!!! 🧎🧎

omfg help… instant wet panties 😵‍💫 i hope this is what you had in mind~

edit: y’all i’m CACKLING at these responses i PROMISE it’s not btob minhyuk in soob’s 💀 i just used the first name that came to my mind HAHAHSKSNJ

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yeonjun would not HESITATE.. you’d be at a party together, splitting off for a bit to hang with your respective friends; as protective as he is, he knows you can handle yourself so he’s not immediately racing over when he sees the guy that approaches you.. though his eyes might as well be burning little fires into the guy’s head from the way he’s staring across the room. he’s keeping an eye on his every move, unbeknownst to you; you’re just minding your business, chatting with your friends, and this rando is getting a little too close for comfort, talkin bout sum “why don’t you pay more attention to me instead ahaha” and it’s when you reject his continual advances that his face sours and the name-calling starts. “don’t be such a bitch, you’re lucky i’m even-“

“watch your fucking mouth before i shut it for you.” aaaand there’s yeonjun, seemingly coming out of nowhere. his hand is fixed in an iron grip on the guy’s wrist which had been extending towards you, staring him down — literally down, yeonjun’s height easily surpassing his — with every indication of “i’ll fuck your shit up if i have to” in his eyes. you can tell right away that the guy’s bark is much bigger than his bite as his own eyes are wide, attempting to yank his hand away to no avail, before yeonjun finally releases his grip a few moments later to watch him quickly retreat back into the crowd after some hastily-mumbled apologies. yeonjun scoffs and throws an arm around your shoulders, grumbling and eyeing the area as you just look up at him with a cocked brow and a growing smile, like hello how’d i bag such a baddie ??? him catching your stare and when you jokingly ask “jealous?” he’s rolling his eyes and grumbling about how no one can talk to his girl like that.. he sticks with you the rest of the night, getting extra grabby as you leave to go home — “gotta get your mind off of limpdick lee 🙄” — and you can imagine how the rest of the night goes when he’s determined to show you exactly how you deserve to be treated by a real man 🤤

soobin, bro.. you don’t even see it coming. usually your boyfriend gets pouty and grumpy when he’s jealous, more cute than anything, so you can’t even believe your eyes — or ears — when this time he actually gets scary. not scary for you; you’re just terrified for the other guy. this is the first time you’ve really seen him get so protective; you’d joined him for some schoolmate reunion party that he didn’t even wanna go to in the first place, grumbling about how awkward it would be (but then blushing and grinning to himself when you pointed out how awestruck everyone would become over his 100/10 visuals) and so here you are, his hand in yours as you walk around being introduced to his old classmates. it’s when he leaves you with a kiss on your cheek to go use the bathroom that it happens. you’re perusing the refreshment table, deciding which drink to grab for soobin, when this guy that’s been hanging around the table starts edging himself closer to you. you nearly jump out of your skin when you glance up to see him already staring from 3 feet away. this dude (whose icky school reputation you’re unaware of) becomes relentless in his “flirting”, talking about your body, trying to touch your hair, making you all-around uncomfortable as fuck until suddenly he stops mid-sentence and just stares up at something past your head like a deer in headlights. confused, you turn around and soobin is suddenly standing right behind you with the NASTIEST, MEANEST, most STEELY glare you’ve ever seen grace his pretty face. “minhyuk.” his voice instantly sends shivers up your spine (and down to your core). this ‘minhyuk’ is already backing off with his hands up in surrender as soobin goes, “if you don’t walk the fuck away from her right now, i will make you regret it.” GAH DAMN…. GAH DAMN…. the way you jump his bones later is unreal i’m just sayin. minhyuk is quick to apologize and leave you alone while soobin is quick to grumble out a “we’re leaving” with an aggravated pout forming on his face, the one you know so well — but holy fuck is this about to be the roughest, yummiest, BEST sex that you’ve ever had.

beomgyu omfg 😭 he doesn’t even TRY to have any chill. you’re out shopping together and he’s already hanging all over you in the first place, ever the clingy baby, so when some guy has the AUDACITY to still come up and try hitting on you, beomgyu is not having it. you’re in the video game section arguing over which league of legends dlc you guys should download when you get home, you stopping to test out smash bros on the newest switch model while beomgyu’s got his arms around your waist, head on your shoulder and rocking you back and forth obnoxiously — “GYU YOU’RE MAKING ME DIZZY” “well pay attention to me!!! 😩” — and neither of you notice the store employee that had been lingering in the same aisle, restocking the controller shelf and sneaking glances in your direction. he makes his move when gyu gets distracted by something off to your other side, arms untangling from your waist as he leans over to take a look at the other shelf with one finger hooking mindlessly through your belt loop. “there’s actually a pretty cool new feature on that one, here lemme show you 😉” you’re standing there like 👁️👄👁️ when the voice that is not your boyfriend’s is suddenly all up in your space, this guy reaching past you from behind, going through some game settings that you’re not even paying attention to because why is this guy’s sweaty chest pressed up against my back?????? “what the fuck” aaand beomgyu has tuned back into the channel. lip curled and a 🤨 look on his face that he doesn’t even try to hide; you’re both standing there like the surprised pikachu meme for a second before the cogs start turning again. “dude. why are you touching my girl?” shouldering his way between you, arm protectively going around your waist again as he blocks the employee off with his large frame. the guy’s hands going up as he defends himself, “hey, she was asking for it.” THE WAYYYYY THAT BEOMGYU’S JAW WOULD DROP ??!?! “what the fuck did you just say?” ohhhhhhhh he’s mad now.. facing the guy while keeping you behind him, dude’s eyes widening as he realizes his mistake — “uh, i didn’t mean-“ “i don’t care what the fuck you meant, you don’t get to fucking talk to my girl like that, you piece of-” you have to DRAG him out of the store and he’s ranting the entire way, finally grabbing your face and kissing you firmly when you get to the car before grumbling “you weren’t asking for shit..” league of legends be damned, he’s fucking you good the second you get home.

taehyun….. 👁️👁️ is it hot in here already….? you guys don’t go clubbing often, but when you do, your boyfriend is like a blinking neon sign that reads “touch my girl and i’ll run you into the ground 😀.” he hates leaving you alone even for a second, not because he doesn’t trust you, but because he doesn’t trust “all these fucking horndogs that wanna get with you.” his words, not yours. barely drinks anything at first cuz if he has to pee then he has to leave you alone 💀 eventually you convince him to be more chill, have some drinks, and you’re enjoying yourselves — pressed all up on him on the side of the dance floor 🤤 — until begrudgingly he finally excuses himself to the bathroom. you stay put, bopping your head along to the music as you sip at your drink, leaning against the wall to avoid getting knocked into by any dancing bodies. perhaps this backfires, however, when one of those bodies, fairly drunk and heading straight for you, cages you in with his arms before you can even process his intention. his breath reeks of alcohol as you flatten yourself as much against the wall as you can, eyes flitting nervously towards the direction of the bathrooms, praying taehyun will be quick as this manchild croons to you about how he’s been watching you all night and couldn’t wait to get you alone like this. “my boyfriend’s gonna fuck you up,” you mutter, and fuck him up he does. in a flash the guy is on the ground, reeling from the gut punch he just received, taehyun standing there with a terrifyingly calm look on his face. “what do you think you’re doing?” there’s a warning in his eyes, a warning that this bitch ignores as he stumbles to his feet, throwing all kinds of colorful words at the both of you, before stopping mid-tirade as taehyun steps forward calmly, gripping the guy’s collar in his fist as he stares down at him and says with gritted teeth, “you have 5 seconds to walk away before i shove my foot so far up your ass that you’ll be tasting leather. try touching my girl like that again and see what fucking happens.” the raging storm in his eyes paired with the level tone of his voice has your thighs squeezing together despite the situation, and when the man scurries away, you almost feel dizzy at the burning kiss taehyun gives you. muttering “we aren’t coming here again” as he immediately leads you out to the car, heading back home where the filthiest fuck of your life awaits you 😍

kai tends to get quiet when he gets jealous. his instinct being to close himself off more, becoming a careful observer rather than an outright confronter; which is why you’re taken so off guard by the open display of back the fuck off that he dishes out one day when you’re at a convention together. you’re exploring the different booths hand in hand, gushing over the merch tables and limited edition figurines, debating whether or not you should add to your shared plushie collection — when suddenly from behind you comes a low “damn, what a nice ass.” you almost don’t catch it at first. you almost don’t process that it’s being directed at you if not for kai freezing beside you, gaze snapping over his shoulder to the crusty man stood eyeballing you shamelessly. you’re both in shock for a moment until an uneasy feeling creeps over you, and kai can tell. “what did you just say?” your eyes flicker up to him and widen; you’ve never seen him look so serious. his tone is careful, but you can tell that he’s angry. the man is rolling his eyes and saying something like “i wasn’t talking to you, kid, was i?” as he reaches forward as if ready to tweak at your skirt with his fingers. you quickly back up into kai and his hand is flashing out at lightning speed to shove the man’s arm back. “you need to step away.” he’s firm now, holding his ground even as the man sneers at him and starts, “yeah? or what-“ “you need to step away right now before i fucking make you. do not try me.” you’re GOBSMACKED, is this really your sweet plushie loving boyfriend ??!!?!? whatever sexy protective spirit possessed him, you hope that it stays, because the man is visibly shaken even as he scoffs and leaves the booth behind. you turn to look up at your boyfriend whose brows are furrowed over dark eyes, and he’s quickly asking if you’re okay, asking if you want to leave, rambling out questions of concern that have you interrupting him with a simple statement: “i’m gonna suck you off so good later.” his face turns bright red as he stops functioning for a second before groaning and mumbling all these things about how you should be treated like a princess and an angel and.. let’s just say that you definitely feel like one later that night after he’s done with you <3

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edenspoem · 1 year ago

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CALLING ALL FANFICTION AUTHORS!

please reblog this. i've talked about this twice before, but obviously not everyone has seen it. i am calling for anyone who writes fanfiction or posts about a certain game/show/universe in any connective manner to please, please- PLEASE, copy this memo below comprising links to supporting palestine, education on the situation in gaza, and a must-need for those who engage in TLOU tumblr; links regarding the creators (neil druckmann) zionism, and how the plot of tlou2 is based on the israeli occupation of palestine. i don't care if what you write seems "insignificant" or "small" in the grouping of larger fics. no. everything that is not related to palestine in any form NEEDS these links. because, when we stray away from reblogging, or writing up our own posts in support of palestine/sharing journalists stories/etc. even for a SINGLE piece of writing, we could be missing people who are unaware (which, shouldn't be the case atp, but..) and fucking especially because in these fandoms, fics are the most popular thing. not reblogs about palestine, unfortunately; there are so many fanfiction accounts who very clearly don't give a fuck about the whole situation, seeping in silence, posting fics during strikes, not taking accountability for it now, so on and so forth. please, for the love of all that is good- CALL THEM OUT! people gaining hundreds of notes, tens of reblogs, supportive comments on a post that completely disregards what is happening SO BOLDLY right now, should irk you. i swear, if i see one more fuckass "i didn't know!" apology from an author who is CONSTANTLY on tumblr, REGULARLY posting fanfiction, i'm going to fucking lose it. if you are on tumblr to begin with, being this active- you have time to reblog. actually, educating yourself and reblogging is way quicker than writing up fanfiction of any length. are you fucking kidding me? you are laughable. comical, not real, and i have nay an ounce of respect for you. ever. but besdies that; the memo. i want everyone to copy this, or make something similar. put this above your summaries, authors note, whatever comes before the writing. every post you make should link back to supporting palestine, cause you never know how many eyes it will reach. it could change a lot of things. on pc, i believe copying it completely will preserve the links, but i'm not sure if mobile will. again. do whatever you can to add it. don't be lazy. put this in ur masterlists/navigation too.

for all fanfiction authors:

from the river to the sea, palestine will be free 🇵🇸

READ: this account stands with palestine, and so— i require everyone who interacts to educate themselves, and support/donate. READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. silence is complicity, do not scroll past this.

for tlou fanfiction authors:

from the river to the sea, palestine will be free 🇵🇸

DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist. PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS.

you may add what is necessary, i wanted to keep it short for attention span sakes, and to avoid people skipping it entirely, and so on. i may edit these, fix up anything, but again, if you're using them you can edit them however. as long as you are linking anything in general, that is what matters. thank you, love from aestra. from the river to the sea, palestine will be free 🇵🇸

#palestine #free palestine 🇵🇸#from the river to the sea palestine will be free #ellie williams x reader #abby anderson x reader #joel miller x reader #fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #ellie williams #abby anderson #joel miller #tlou #tlou 2 #author #writers on tumblr #authors

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ssa-dado · 15 days ago

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Stale Cigarette(s)

Aaron Hotchner x fleabag!reader Genre: Deep talk instead of deep throat (pre-relationship mutual pining?) Hurt → comfort → hurt → final reminder that old dogs don’t change, they just find warmer corners to lie in Summary: You get dragged to a bar by your coupled-up friends and end up chain-smoking on a bench with your FBI crush. He offers you cigarettes untouched for exactly two years... so- um... what the hell happened two years ago? Warnings: age gap dynamics, smoking stale cigs, they're both a bit tipsy, objectification of the Hotchner body, grief (Haley mentioned), reader is not a reliable narrator! HOTCH SUCKS. HOTCH REALLY SUCKS. Word Count: 4.8k Dado's Corner: To all my readers named Haley: no you don’t. Not for a full 4.8k words, anyway. My deepest apologies. (Feel free to send hate mail. I deserve it.) Edit: if any of this sounded self-indulgent… that’s because it is. An ode to loneliness. Yours, always, Phi :3

masterlist

It’s not always the right historical era to go out with your two very not single friends.

You try. You make an appearance. You sip something overpriced and pretend to be fascinated by the structural integrity of the ice cube.

“My fiancé-” This man used to be called Matt until he got on one knee.

Not that you’re judging.

You’d absolutely pull the same shit if someone proposed to you. You’d probably milk it even more. Refer to them exclusively as “my betrothed” and update your mailing address to include your ring size. But the problem is-

It hasn’t happened.

You. As always.

“…the food was amazing…”

You smile. Take a sip. Your face performs basic social functions, trying to channel what middle-aged FBI speedo guy would do if he were politely enduring small talk at your place.

You are happy for your friend. Truly. (She’s your friend, for fuck’s sake. You should be happy.)

But sometimes happiness is… situational.

Sometimes, out of nowhere, you get blindsided by this sudden, lurching gut-punch of awareness of just how alone you really are.

Every empty seat next to you turns into a flashing neon sign that screams “STILL SINGLE LMAO, ENJOY DYING ALONE”

And then everything goes kind of foggy after that.

“…ever been there?” Not a question meant for you, obviously. (When are they ever?)

You kill time wondering what it might feel like to be someone who’s not just… a guest in this kind of life. To live in it full-time. With central heating.

“No, but Jonah took me to this really cute little-”

Cute little gentrified colonizer gastropub.

Ah, Jonah. The man. The myth. The boyfriend with the brilliant idea to bring his girl (your other friend) to an overpriced bar that looks like it was designed by a tech bro who hasn’t spoken to his mother in six years.

And tonight, instead of the usual dive you could actually afford, they decided this was the perfect friends night out venue.

You’ve never seen this many white men packed into one place outside of a church service. Or a David Fincher retrospective.

To be fair - Jonah does earn some credit.

The eavesdropping is phenomenal.

Behind you, someone is monologuing about astrophysics and the scientific inaccuracy of some Star Wars stuff.

You’re actually kind of into it - until he’s immediately shut down by a dude who goes, “Bro, A New Hope came out before you were even the fastest swimmer in the race. Oh- oh, wait… speaking of someone who’s swimming for real…”

“What about this pool guy?” your friend yanks your attention back, firing a perfectly accurate laser beam straight from the 1.40-carat rock on her finger (it’s cut so clean it reflects light directly into your retinas… ouch. It fucking hurts.) “I’ve heard from a certain someone…”

(Aka the woman sitting directly beside her-)

(Aka your other friend-)

(Aka the only one who actually knows the whole story because she’s the one you drive to swimming lessons every week since Jonah’s dick is allegedly 7.5 inches long but apparently can’t drive stick. Or park. Or show up on time. Or do anything but say “vroom” and hope for the best.)

“…Something you’d like to share about your new boy?”

(Ah. So this is what it takes to be included in the conversation - find a real, non-fictional man to thirst over. Got it. Message received.)

“Oh, definitely not a 'boy',” #PoolFriend adds, laughing.

“But you said-” (Mystery solved. Certain someone = swim friend. Wow. Shocking.) “Wait… is he a she?” (God, you wish.)

“No… it’s just that he’s… older?” you try not to sound defensive. (Defending your mighty little FBI princess is, of course, a sacred duty - but you’d rather not look that pathetic in front of the other feminists.)

“Sooooo old,” she beams. “Like, 60? You can see the forehead lines even when he’s resting his face.”

…Which is meant to be a dig, but actually makes you weirdly feral. You try to be diplomatic. You do. “He’s actually forty–”

“Oh- also, guess what?! He’s a dad too!”

Right. Great. Perfect.

Denied even the dignity of curating the lore drop on your old man, you make the emotionally mature decision to nurse your disappointment with alcohol.

You’re not getting drunk – it might soothe your soul, but one too many and you’ll be working your one day off just to pay the plumber who still hasn’t fixed the leak. So... fuck no.

Still, it’s funny how the tiniest buzz in your limbs, compounded by the fact that dinner was just…a whisper of carbs and a prayer, has evolved into such a deep, primal craving.

You want a cigarette.

One. Just one.

A menthol, preferably.

You’d trade your last serotonin molecule. You’d set fire to your own moral compass for a single drag.

But no. Life (your friends), in its eternal comedy, has placed you (without warning) here: in a… *drumroll* cop bar.

“Jonah said this is where the forces of order” (cops) “usually hang out. What if you find your FBI dilf here?!?”

First of all, that man is definitely not here, slumming it with the masses. He’s at home, swaddled in his sacred cocoon, reading a 700-page book on the macroeconomic collapse of the 1970s and calling it a wild night by page 26.

Second of all, you didn’t catch what she said next because your brain automatically dissociates in spaces that reek of both beer and casual misogyny disguised as patriotism.

Anyway: cop bar.

Which makes the mission of bumming a cig both ten times more illegal… and ten times more boring.

Like - sorry - when did smoking become lame?

When did it stop being for artists, rebels, and hot French women who cry in alleyways, and become the property of fascists puffing cigars the size of traffic cones?

(One comically large cigar to overcompensate for their undersized... moral compass. Among other things.)

Can’t they leave one thing alone? Just one? No. Of course not. They’ve colonized tobacco too.

You don’t even bother looking up from the sad little bench you parked your ass on the second you escaped.

Just sit there sulking, already familiar with the sound: the front door creaking open on hinges that haven’t seen oil since the Clinton administration (fascists don’t believe in lube - it’s too homosexual), and that cheap-ass bell above the frame, probably bulk-ordered from a themed decor warehouse trying to Irish-wash this bar into charm.

(It’s all performative heritage, anyway. Just so a white dude with a colonial guilt complex can feel like his ancestors survived the potato famine, instead of, you know… causing it.)

(Not that he could find Ireland on a globe if it came with a magnifying glass and a voiceover.)

Anyway, the bell rings, it’s time to strike again, “Do you have a cigar-”

“Hello to you too…” Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Hello to you too, Aaron Hotchner. So much for your bedtime tea and lights out by 10. No. Of course he had to be here. Now. Tonight. And of course he’s caught you mid-junkie act.

Stunning. Absolutely divine timing.

“Um- hi- so- I was kidding-”

“Hold on,” he says, already turning on his heel. No urgency. Just casually blessing you with a full high-definition shot of the jeans he clearly chose for tonight’s FBI Besties Night Out.

Jeans that almost, miraculously, give him an ass.

Almost.

(It’s more myth than meat. You know there’s nothing back there except air and possibly unprocessed ambition. [Maybe a little guilt in there too. {Or maybe he just padded}])

(You don’t care. You’re willing to suspend disbelief.)

He makes a beeline for his Serious Government-Issue Black Vehicle™, opens the passenger door, grabs something, shuts it again, and strolls back - front view this time (superior).

That something? Your desired little cancer sticks.

The universe provides.

“Shit, you a smoker?”

“If I were, don’t you think I’d keep them in my own pocket?” he says, topping it off with a little cherry on top (a sigh) that tells you he’s already regretting his detour, as he takes out his lighter.

One that’s clearly been used. A lot. The kind of wear no casual user puts on a Bic.

Unless Aaron’s got a Yankee Candle addiction (doubtful), that thing’s been through it.

“Look…” he starts. (Ah. So he noticed you noticing.) “I used to smoke a lot back when I was…” he fumbles - clearly seconds away from saying your age before veering off, cowardly, at the last second.

Loser.

“I quit when Jack - my son,” he adds, as if you haven’t already bookmarked his LinkedIn, archived Facebook, and the BAU team photo from 2009. Still, you nod, all “ohh” and innocent, so you don’t blow your cover. “-was born. I wouldn’t have been setting a good example. And it was bad for his health.”

“Yours too,” you murmur.

“Sure…” he musters the guts to chuckle. Tipsy? Maybe. Maybe just… soft. “Fuck that shit.”

(Definetely not soft.)

Except he’s full of it. Because if he’s so retired, why does he even have the pack in the first place?

You glance at it. Then down. (Not that down. Okay, a little.) The contradiction is right there in his hands. (And, arguably, in his jeans. But focus.)

Aaron goes all starey and confused, like he’s trying to telepathically summon a reaction from you. Maybe expecting you to scold him for swearing like a big boy. Maybe waiting for you to drop something coy like Wow, I’m sooo impressed, sir. Either way, he’s clearly starving for commentary.

So, in true martyr fashion, he opens the box.

Red Marlboros. Lame-ass classics. Of course. (You mentally pin that detail to your Bullying Vision Board.)

Only one cigarette is missing. Wait - no. Two.

Because he slides one out, tucks it between his lips, and just like that, your primal urge to bully him gets temporarily eclipsed by your even more feral desire to suck that exact cigarette out of his mouth.

“So much for being a quitter… aren’t you training for, like… some sports thing right now? You sure any of this is good for you?”

The cigarette bobs between his lips, his chin tilting just enough to let him peer down at you through half-lidded eyes - drawing a perfect little cardiogram of your heart rate spiking into cardiac arrest as he asks, “And how do you know I’m training for something?

Um...

By his tits.

Specifically: the ones bursting at the seams between the third and fourth button of his denim shirt, testing the tensile limits of ready-to-wear denim.

This is what happens when a man dives headfirst into some unsupervised fitness spiral and forgets to monitor his pec-to-fabric ratio.

Volume expansion was clearly not accounted for - or maybe it was, and this is all part of the plan. (Tactical slutwear.)

Because through that tiny, blasphemous gap in fabric: chest hair. An irresponsible amount of pale pec flesh. And a single freckle positioned so seductively you’d happily trade your liver, your birthright, and three months of overpriced therapy just to tongue it.

“Educated guess.” You’ve been caught - whatever. Still. Bless his midlife crisis. Unironically* the best decision he’s ever made.

…You’re joking, of course.

*Ironically. Yes.

Because all you get as a reply is one boyish little shake of the head instead of some broody retort in his usual Middle English.

He’s showing off.

Lighting up while you’re still empty-handed, selfishly enjoying the moral high ground and the taste of the butt of a cig.

Right hand cupped against the wind like a practiced sinner, flicks the lighter, flame kisses the filter.

He inhales slowly. Cheeks go hollow. Lashes dip low. Lungs greedily taking in what, by all laws of karmic justice, should’ve been your hit.

He leans back the tiniest bit, exhales with a sound that could be a sigh, a groan, a spell - and sends a perfectly petty swirl of smoke drifting up into the night sky…

And directly into your face.

“Are you gonna let me steal one of those or are you just getting off on making me watch?”

He squints. Takes another drag. Blows the smoke directly past your cheek. “Bought these exactly two years ago. I’m just making sure you’re not inhaling mold or… God knows what else.” (Why is God always the third wheel in your conversations?) “…You could try being grateful instead of giving me lip.”

You bite down the urge to say something about lip (or head, being medically accurate). “But I never asked you to do that… I just asked for a fucking cigarette. Let me inhale mold in peace.”

Anyway. Because you’re nothing if not polite - and not in the mood to witness a grown man get misty-eyed outside a bar at whatever-the-fuck o’clock - you sigh, lift your hand toward him, and slap on the biggest, fakest smile in your arsenal. “Please.”

The federal martyr mutters something - probably just for himself - about your relentless display of patheticism, but you’re too busy delightedly accepting a lone cancer stick as it emerges from the raven-haired 40-inch emotional support wig he calls knuckle hair.

“It’s a bit stale. Tastes like shit, honestly - just a heads up,” and drops onto the far end of the bench, manspreading just enough to make it clear that his long-ass legs now own every inch of that square meter.

The lighter gets passed to you wordlessly.

His fingers do not.

They linger - just behind your shoulders, just beyond plausible deniability.

Not touching (God forbid), but drifting into your orbit with the kind of casual inertia that feels anything but. One breath away from contact. From consequence.

Convenient, really - how something can feel so deliberate while technically doing absolutely nothing at all.

Just like how he jolts from his relaxed pose the second he hears you cursing the wind for cockblocking your nicotine hit. No hesitation. His hand curls in around yours, close enough to shield the flame - but closer still for the effect.

And you smell it.

Tonka bean.

Supposed to be subtle. Barely a base note.

But here, up close and concentrated and radiating off his pulse point, it turns narcotic. Sickly sweet and warm and grounded by something woodsy. It spins your head more than the nicotine ever could.

The lighter sparks.

And so do you.

His beautiful eyes.

The fire warms them into the richest hazel - gold spun through molasses - eyes that cast shadows so sharp they immortalise him into myth. Cheekbones all angles and darkness. Jaw tight, like he’s holding back the next thought from spilling out.

You’d kiss him. You would. Kiss his face, kiss his mouth, kiss that stupid expensive smell off his pulse point, kiss the glow from his lashes-

If only your own lips weren’t already wrapped around a filter. (If only you weren’t a monumental fucking coward.)

You hate that his gaze does this to you. That it tastes metallic on your skin, sharp and mineral and weirdly sour-

Just like the cigarette.

Especially when he finally breaks it, glancing down at the concrete like the tension might drain there, too.

“Man, this is barely hitting,” you wheeze - blaming the stale stick, of course, not yourself. Never yourself. Always safer to fault an inanimate object than admit you’re the common denominator of all of your problems.

“Told you,” Aaron gloats, flicking ash off the edge, all giddy because #HeWasRight. “It’s old and fucked. You’ve gotta wait it out. If you’re lucky, the nicotine kicks in and it just sucks slightly less... not as good as a fresh one but - this is all I’ve got.” (…Right. He’s so totally referring to the cigarettes.)

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. This is better than nothing,” you mumble, dragging again. “Anything that helps me forget this waste of a Friday.”

Which is a lie, obviously. Because sitting on a sad bench chain-poisoning yourself with a middle-aged… (oof) cop… is easily the best part of it.

Not that you’d ever admit that out loud.

God forbid he ever clocks the fact that all your chances with him are already in the gutter because of how openly, stupidly rueful you’ve been acting.

Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s his fault.

Maybe he’s pulling some sick, gravitational field of pitifulness out of you just by existing.

Just by making you feel more at ease than your actual friends do - friends who drag you out to overpriced bars and call it “catching up” but barely ask a single question.

Maybe it’s because he actually listens. Doesn’t rush to fill silence. Doesn’t take and take and take.

And that’s all it takes.

One line of smoke down your throat, and the floodgates swing open. Words start tumbling out like it’s a compulsion. Like he’s the first pair of ears that hasn’t immediately gone looking for someone shinier.

“Let me guess… you’re one of those people who only smoke when they fuck something up? What happened? Divorce?”

Aaron tuts (man?!), “Close… though I’m not sure you’re in any position to judge - seeing as you only seem to smoke when someone else fucks up.”

How ironic.

If you were ever stupid enough to end up together and he managed to fuck things up (which he would) you’d both be right back here, smoke in your lungs, hands shaking, pretending it’s not about each other.

Hopeless. You’d never work. You’d ruin each other on principle.

Maybe it’s the cigarette. Maybe sharing something as self-destructive as this creates a kind of camaraderie. You’re both shaving off a few years of your lives, like the ads promise, so it only feels fair to share the minutes too.

So as ash falls onto the concrete, he learns a few things about you. That this was your friends’ idea. That it was supposed to be “a fun night out.” That you didn’t really want to come. And somehow - God knows how - maybe it’s his Catholic guilt boiling in his bloodstream over dying in sin - but he finally says,

“You didn’t really look like you were part of the conversation.”

You nearly drop the cigarette.

He was kind of right. The nicotine takes a while to hit - but maybe it’s more the hit of being noticed.

By him, no less.

(A man.)

(With a tit out.)

Suddenly, the whole thing feels archaic - like you’ve time-traveled back to the era when women weren’t allowed to vote, but still hoped the town’s handsomest soldier might remember what color dress they wore at the spring fair.

Or when tampons were taxed as luxury items. (Wait a second...)

What a world.

What progress.

Progress also means he admits he recognized you… by the back of your head.

He’d been sitting behind you. Of course you hadn’t seen him. But he’d seen you. Not your face. Just your outline. Your posture. Your absence. And still - he knew it was you.

Which should make you feel triumphant. Gloaty, even.

FBI DILF has your silhouette burned into the folds of his premature memory loss? That’s deranged. That’s power. You should weaponize it.

Feels… bittersweet.

Because it wasn’t the presence of your face that triggered recognition. It was the lack of it. The gap. The space you take up when no one else is looking. And somehow… he looked anyway.

Fucking hell.

You need to stop smoking Aaron’s cigarettes.

They don’t just burn your throat - they peel you open, down to the bone. Turn your lungs to pulp and your brain to mushy existential soup. This is not you.

Or maybe this is you. Maybe this is the real you. The needy one. The one who just wants someone to see her.

And worse - he does. He might. And maybe that’s what makes him dangerous.

Maybe he sees things about you that you haven’t even admitted to yourself yet.

Or maybe he’s just like every other man who ever looked at you and called you a friend. Right after unzipping his pants.

Stale cigarettes, overpriced alcohol, and unsolicited introspection. The worst threesome of all.

“It just fucking sucks, man,” you mutter. You’re not blaming yourself. Plato probably said something similar while chain-smoking scrolls or whatever. “Like, I know love is fake. I know it. But even if it’s childish - rooted in all that patriarchal storybook bullshit - I still feel like I deserve the kind of love they read to me about as a kid.”

“Oh, no,” Aaron softens his voice. “I disagree with that first part.” Of course you do, old man. “I don’t think love is fake, maybe the forever part is what’s unrealistic. The happy ending…” (What’s wrong with him???) “The happily ever after, that’s the myth. But you shouldn’t blame yourself for wanting something that lasts.”

…Something real. Something that doesn’t flake like ash in the wind.

You can smell the incoming boomer sermon from a mile away - and yep, here it comes. “I just don’t understand this fear men seem to have now about settling down. Is it fear of choosing? Dating apps make everyone feel disposable. Like if you commit, you might miss out on someone better. So you never do. Or maybe it’s something worse. Fear of feeling. Of loving.”

Shit.

How exactly are you supposed to explain to Aaron Hotchner that he just accidentally summed up your entire Notes app without sounding like you’re about to snap into a spoken word piece about modern loneliness?

"Easy to say when you’ve only got a few years left and don’t want to die alone." You’re not being mean. You’re just out of emotional vocabulary. That was the cleanest sentence you could manage with the filter still burning between your fingers.

He taps his cigarette against the bench. Smoke curls out of his smirk. “Funny - I was just about to say you don't sound like a horrible person.”

You snort. “See? You’re not that different from all the other dickheads out there.”

"Maybe, but that doesn’t make you unworthy of being loved .” (Pause. Beat. Murder.) “And - frankly - you underestimate how many masochists would find your tendency to call people out when they’re being dickheads… oddly endearing."

“Masochists? Really?!”

“Miss, you called me a dickhead… heavily implied, yes, but still,” he chuckles, “Masochists aside - I’m serious. I hope you know that.”

“Well… thank you then.”

“Anytime.” Said like it doesn’t cost him anything to be generous for three seconds. Must be nice.

You’re not naïve.

This (whatever this is) this rhythm of trading barbs and pretending not to notice how good it feels to be seen? It’ll end with the cigarette. That’s the expiration date.

Once the last drag’s done, so is the spell. Back to real life, back to no obligation to talk. Back to being strangers again.

So maybe that’s why it slips out.

“I think what gets to me the most is... I just want someone to actually listen. Like, really listen. Not out of pity, not out of politeness. Not because it’s their fucking turn to play therapist. Just… because they want to. Because they care enough to. I want to be helped. I want to be seen. And it sucks. It sucks that no one ever really does. It sucks not knowing if that someone… exists. Ever feel that kind of lonely?”

“I understand what you mean. If it helps… loneliness might be the most universal condition there is. It’s paradoxical - everyone feels it, but no one wants to admit it. You grow up being told people are essential. That you need connection to be whole. But the truth is… most of the time, it’s just you. You think your own thoughts. You carry your own weight. The rest… they’re- complimentary. Temporary. Additions. They matter, but they’re not the foundation.” (Man… that’s depressing.) “Or at least, that’s what I’ve always believed.”

“And you’re fine with that?! Not having anyone who can help you make sense of… everything?” You shake your head, baffled. “I don’t even know how you function.”

He breathes in deep, doesn’t look at you when he answers. “I compartmentalize. I separate myself from the problem and keep going. If I let myself really sit with it… I wouldn’t be useful to the people who need me more.”

Hero complex. Exhibit A.

“You’re telling me you never talk to anyone about your feelings?” you ask. “Like… not even one friend? Not even one of your little apocalypse buddies you save the world with?”

“We’re colleagues, not friends.” (So he’s basically admitting he has no friends… isn’t he?) “And for the record, I am opening up to you right now, aren’t I?”

“Dude…” This man. This man is the emotional equivalent of a locked filing cabinet at the bottom of the ocean. And you want him. Disgusting. “Despite some of the stuff you’ve told me being… like… genuinely borderline horrible, and you’re so lucky I didn’t deck you-”

He smirks. “You could’ve. I probably deserved it.”

You glance over. He’s chuckling to himself now, the corners of his mouth tugged upward just slightly, cheeks flushed, probably from the scotch finally catching up with him.

“Aside from calling me a dickhead, of course…” he adds.

You fumble. Damn it. “I was trying to say - despite that - your words did help. A little.” Smug little upturn of his mouth. You want to slap it off him. For real this time. “Not like… made-everything-better kind of help. More like - didn’t make me feel worse. Which is basically the same thing, right?”

He smiles. Pretentious asshole. You need to stay strong - not linger on it, not let it do things to your insides.

So you pivot. Hard.

“Sometimes it helps, you know? Getting a fresh pair of eyes on your mess. You just have to - I don’t know - admit you’re a loser, peel off a couple layers of that bulletproof manhood you’ve wrapped yourself in, and actually say what you’re feeling. To someone. Out loud. With words.”

He looks at you. He’s supposed to take another drag, but he doesn’t. Just watches. Still. Quiet.

“Yeah, I know. Wild concept.” You shake your head, let yourself soften - just a little. Just for him. Maybe he’s worth it. “But if you don’t do that, no one’s ever gonna get it. Not really. People can’t read your mind, Aaron. They’re not gonna understand unless you tell them. And even then, it’s a gamble. But it’s the only shot you’ve got.”

“You always make it sound so easy, Hales.”

“That’s… not my name.”

“What?” *The Bluetooth device is ready to pair.* You can hear the connection click in his skull. “Oh – God - I’m so sorry.” *The Bluetooth device is connected successfully.* “I didn’t- didn’t mean- I’m sorry, you just… you sounded exactly like her.”

You don’t know who he means. Not for sure. You have a guess, of course. Everyone has a guess when a man like him says “her” with that look in his eye.

But you’re too annoyed to admit it. Too annoyed and – maybe - just a little dizzy. From the cigarette. From the him of it all. From the ache in your chest that shouldn’t be there, not really.

Because the one fucking time someone actually seems to listen to you, to hear you, it’s not even really you they’re hearing.

It’s her. It was always her.

You were just close enough in shape and tone and timing to wake the shadow of someone else.

“It’s just that… it’s been two years today.” Oh, mysterious boy. From what?! From what?

You want to yell. You want to pull his stupid loose shirt tighter so it stops falling open every time he leans forward and says emotionally damaging things.

“Actually…” he gives a watery little laugh, and you hate how beautiful it is, how it lands soft and splintering right in your chest.

“It’s been two years since I bought these too,” he says, pulling out the same battered pack of Marlboros. Same lame-ass, fermented cigarettes from his glove compartment. Same pack with only one missing - until tonight. The same ones he offered you.

The same ones he last smoked two years ago.

“…And two years since my wife’s funeral.”

The filter tastes rancid.

You know the situation is deeply, apocalyptically fucked when not only does he casually drop a circumstantial bomb to imply she’s dead - because actually saying the words would clearly cost him something vital - but he also slips. Calls her his wife.

Not ex-wife.

(You may or may not have stalked him so thoroughly that you accidentally uncovered his signed divorce papers on a weird, half-archived subpage of her attorney’s old website. Whoopsies.)

So it’s not just the grief. It’s the grief plus the guilt plus the very subtle, very devastating slip that he maybe never stopped thinking of her as his wife.

Even after.

Even now.

Which would be a perfect cue to walk away. To protect yourself. To not indulge whatever haunted cathedral of unresolved feelings he’s got going on behind those wet lashes.

You should leave.

You should definitely leave.

…But he’s so hot when he cries.

taglist: @beata1108 ; @c-losur3 ; @donttrustlove ; @fangirlunknown ; @goorgeousz ; @hayleym1234 ; @ignoreeeeeee ; @justyourusualash ; @khxna ; @kiwriteswords ; @kyrathekiller ; @littlemisskavities ; @lostinwonderland314 ; @mmmunson ; @msfreedom ; @mxblobby ; @nikt-wazny-y ; @oxforce ; @percysley ; @person-005 ; @prettybaby-reid ; @purechaosss ; @reidfile ; @royalestrellas ; @ssa-callahan ; @softtdaisy ; @softestqueeen ; @thatkidofwarandpeace ; @theseerbetweenus ; @todorokishoe24 ; @who-needs-to-sleep

#aaron hotchner #hotch #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #hotch x reader #criminal minds #aaron hotchner x reader unless your name's haley #fleabag!reader

276 notes · View notes

em-ontv · 10 months ago

Note

Hii, I was wondering if you could write something for Soldier Boy? Just something where he’s down bad and obsessed with the reader? Love your writing, thank you 😭

Honestly, thank you for this, I needed it to feed into my Soldier Boy delusions. Here you go, anon! Hope you like it <3

Guilty pleasure.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x fem!supe!reader

Warnings: vulgar language/cursing, obsessive behavior, Ben is really down bad, no use of y/n, English is not my first language, mistakes should be present, apologies beforehand :)

Word count: 439

———————————————————————————

Ben was the fucking Soldier Boy, the All-American hero, the one-man army who could singlehandedly fight a whole battalion. He had the whole country eating out of the palm of his hand. But he had a secret — a guilty pleasure, if you will. And it was you.

You were more than just a supe. You were a sensation, neatly crafted by Vought to be the perfect girl. The kind that made men weak in the knees.

And Ben was no different.

Yeah, you had no fucking clue, but he had a serious crush on you. He was your biggest fucking fan, and he felt pathetic about it — Soldier Boy didn't do crushes, but here he was.

He had stacks and stacks of magazines of you, posters hung up on the walls of his room, and even some rare, limited-edition shit that he paid top dollar for. He'd never admit it, but he had spent countless hours staring at printed images of your face, tearing his way through Supe Weekly to find you in there. It was ridiculous, and he knew it, but that didn't stop him from acting like a totally obsessed fanboy every time he saw your face anywhere he walked.

America's hardest badass — hoarding fan memorabilia like a fucking teenager — what a joke. And he'd be damned if one of his teammates from Payback ever found out about his little obsession with you, he'd never be able to live it down, but he’d probably punch their skulls in.

So when the word came down that Payback had a working opportunity with you, Ben almost lost his shit. He'd practically jumped out of his chair when the news hit. But he wanted to keep it cool — be the stoic leader who didn't bat an eye at you. But inside? He was thrilled. A chance to meet you, to work alongside you? It was like someone had handed him Christmas on a silver platter.

When the day finally came, Ben stood in front of the mirror in his quarters, checking his reflection for the twentieth time. The thought of embarrassing himself in front of you made his stomach twist.

And the conference room.

He was fighting the urge to just bolt for the door. And then you walked in. Holy shit, you were even better in person. It made his brain short-circuit when you walked directly to him.

"Soldier Boy," you greeted, your voice smooth. "Been looking forward to this."

When Ben opened his mouth to speak, nearly no sound came out except for a voice crack. And it was at this moment that he knew. He was fucked.

900 notes · View notes

simpee9000 · 10 months ago

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Not Just Friends - 10 -

M.List : Prologue : Part 1 : Part 2 : Part 3 : Part 4 : Part 5 : Part 6 : Part 7 : Part 8 : Part 9 : Words 3.1k

Childhood best friends turned into something more, at least with the label. Katsuki Bakugo, a fast-rising hero and fast-learning guy who is ever so slow in getting attached to and loving someone. Even three long years into a relationship, and your friends even forget you're even dating. Nothing happening, spare a few kisses.. like 3 kisses, during high school. Graduated and living together, and you guys have done absolutely nothing to further the relationship. Are you sure you're not just friends? Also not edited!! CW: Smut, brief domestic violence discussion, virginity loss, aggressive flirting from creeps, gore with pro hero stuff (lmk if i missed any) Applies to all chapters regardless of it is in said chapter.

It was a turn back to normal after the long conversation between the two of you. Tears sliding down your faces, majority yours but you saw a couple fall from his. It was a necessary conversation. He opened up about his quirk and apologized for ditching you. You apologize for the same.

Easily enough, the two of you moved on from it quickly. Talking about the past two months when all the overwhelming emotions passed. You blabbed about how many new offers you were getting and he talked about how he was hiring more and more people to his agency.

Despite not being able to ignore the last two months, it was easy to move past.

Growing past it within the night, having everything off your chest. It still didn't make things go back to normal.

You continued to share a bed, but changed your schedules around again to see more of each other. Flipping back into your old routine as much as possible. Not without a few changes though. Lunches would only be once a week rather than daily, and you'd be working for another hour or two after he got home. Since you wanted to sleep in still.

But it still improved your relationship again. Building it back up slowly. You were able to eat a late dinner together each night and share an off day. Sharing your off day made it easier for you anyway. After the break-in it was hard to be home without him, so the last two months were rough. Your therapist said you were doing great though, so that helped.

The first days of going back to normal was rough, having to adjust to seeing each other daily again. Conversations between the two of you felt awkward, mainly on your side. You grew so much in those two months, no longer relying on him. It shifted the dynamic.

"Y'good?" Katsuki's gruff voice broke your train of thought. Your eyes flickered up to him.

"Huh?"

"Been fuckin' playin' with your food," he points his fork at your plate, "Don't like it or some shit?"

"No, I like it," you looked back down. It was definitely not your favorite meal he made, but it was good.

His silverware claddered roughly against his plate, his arms crossing, "The fuck has been wrong with you?"

"Do you have to swear with every sentence?" you avoided, taking a bite of your food instead.

You could feel him roll his eyes along with his heavy sigh, "You've been off since."

"A relationship doesn't heal just like that," you pointed out.

"Will you look at me?" he asked annoyed. A glance up at his expression made you cut your attitude. He was trying, that much was obvious. And after all your talk of communication, you were doing nothing.

"Sorry," you set your fork down, engaging in the conversation, "I'm just lost? I guess. Hard to place it. I've changed a lot in the past two months-"

"How?"

You glared at him for interrupting you. "I've stopped prioritizing you. I'm more focused on myself now. It's hard to go back to normal when the 'normal,' was me running circles around you."

He shuffled in his seat, "That's fine. I'm glad you've moved on in that sense, done you good."

"You're not worried how it'll change us?" you asked softly, it's been all you were thinking of for the past few weeks.

"I'm always fuckin' worried," he admitted, eyes drifting to look at the wall instead of you, "But we'll work it out."

You were glad he still viewed the two of you as a 'we,' heart melting slightly as you reached your hand across the table. "I'm not going to tip-toe around you anymore, Kats."

"Good," he gruffed out, uncrossing his arms and grabbing onto your hand. Changing his focus onto that, "I don't want you to."

"Good," you agreed, smiling at how he let his thumb trace over your knuckles.

"You, um," he fumbled for a minute, eyebrows furrowing, "You're still okay with us not doing shit right?"

"I'd never push that," you confirmed, shocked he even thought you would complain about that.

"Don't get me wrong, I would, just-" he pulled his hands back wiping them on his pants before running them down his face, "my dumb fuckin' quirk."

"You love your quirk," you pointed out.

"Yeah and I'd fuckin' love to touch my girlfriend but no, I gotta be a horny virgin 'cause of it," he groaned, crossing his arms again.

Stifling a laugh was difficult, but you managed, "Maybe we can just work up to it? Get you used to the baseline first before, that."

His quirk went off suddenly, "Can't even fuckin' think of it," he groaned, standing up to go wash his hands off.

"It's cute." You followed behind him to place dishes in the skin, having cleared your plates a while ago.

"Fuck you."

"Hey," you laughed, "At least you can tell Denki and Sero that you beat them at No Nut November. And have for the past 19 years."

He shot you a glare from the sink, "The one challenge I wouldn't want to beat, great."

"It's what makes you number one to me, baby," you teased, kissing his shoulder as you moved past him, wanting to pester him while the mood was light and he was already flustered. It was nice how easy it was to move past something with him. But you wanted to test how much he'd react to you not tiptoeing around him anymore.

With success, his quirk popped off again.

"Fuck off."

You let out a crackle of laughter, "You're too easy."

"Die."

He finally stopped washing his hands, turning to dry them off. You watched from the counter, plotting. "Your back looks nice," you commented, his muscles have been more defined lately and you only got to appreciate it now. His tank top showcases his shoulders nicely.

He froze for a moment, side-eyeing you. "Do you want to get blown up or something?"

"No, do you want to get blown?" you asked back, letting Denki's crude humor influence you.

Like a charm, his quirk sparked off. "Quit it."

"Nah, it's too much fun," you smiled at him, kicking off the counter you were leaning on and moving to leave the kitchen. Hand squeezing his bicep when you walked by.

He didn't let you get even a step away before he grabbed your hand and pulled you into him. His hands grabbing at your hips and moving to push you into the counter. "Where do y'think you're goin'?" he smirked down at you.

Your face bloomed a deep shade, blushing harshly at how close he was. He hasn't been that close since you argued two months ago.

"Nothin' to say?"

You blinked up at him, trying to steady the rapid beating of your heart with the way he was tracing circles onto your hips.

"Might like you but that doesn't mean I'll let you say shit and get away with it," he crowded you closer to the counter.

"What happened to your quirk?" you whispered, losing your voice at the proximity.

"You offered to work up to it, right?" he brushed his hands clean on his shirt briefly before going back to your hips.

"Yeah," you looked down at his hands, trying to make sure the watch was off.

"It's off," he confirmed, twisting his wrist so you could see. When you looked back up at him, he held his gaze deeply, "What happened to that smart mouth?"

"Want me to show you?" you placed your hands on his chest, running over the span of his shoulders. Your body was on fire, the two of you flirted, sure, but this was different. His quirk was fully there. He was fully there.

His eyes lidded slightly, zeroing in his focus on your lips, "Fuck yeah I do."

Your lips closed the gap between the two of you. It wasn't as soft and nervous as all the past kisses, it was something you just threw yourself in. Stomach crazy with butterflies as your mind started buzzing. His hands tightened their grip on your hips as he stepped even closer to you.

Bodies curled into each other to get closer. Your hands digging into the hair at the base of his neck as you deepened the kiss. Full of passion and sexual tension. There was hardly any innocence to the kiss, and if there was, it faded within seconds.

A sigh of relief falling from your lips when his hands slipped under your shirt, brushing over your skin roughly. Fingers being callused and dry from work.

As soon as his hands met your skin he pulled away frantically. Pulling his body from yours completely before his quirk started popping off.

"Fuck me," he groaned in frustration, grabbing a dish towel and wiping his hands off.

"I wish I could," you teased.

He shot you a glare, blush flaring all over his face and coating his neck with a red. "Stop," he grumbled.

"Stop what?"

"Stop looking at me like that," he shied away, washing his hands in water for a moment.

You paused for a moment, considering how you looked. With how flushed his face was you could tell you were no better. Lips plumped and freshly kissed red as your shirt was ruffled up from his hands as you leaned back into the counter. "Why would I? You clearly like what you see?"

The confidence within you came from nowhere. There has been sexual tension between the two of you before, many times before. Even before he had the watch. But normally you had to be drunk as hell to make such obvious jokes towards him, especially ones about sex. Maybe it was the fact that it was on the table, when before it wasn't. You knew he wanted it as much as you did.

"Fuck off," he grumbled.

"Come on, Kats," you pushed your luck.

"I love you, but please stop whatever the fuck you're doing before we need a new apartment," he spoke without thought, freezing the second he realized what he said.

You barked out a laugh, he spoke so plainly. You didn't want him to get wrapped up in his head, so you ignored the rushing butterflies over his admissions. "Fine, fine," you gave in, smiling happily at him, "Hug?"

He looked at you, untrusting of you before he opened his arms, gesturing you near.

Taking the moment, you threw yourself in his arms. Wrapping your arms around his waist he pulled you in fully. Letting you rest your head on his chest as he rested his on yours.

Everything felt secure in your relationship, you'd move one step at a time together. With a lot of teasing between, but that was common between you and him, despite the lack of it lately.

"I love you too, by the way," you mumbled into his chest, having a happy feeling travel through your body at the small number of times he's actually said it.

"I know."

You moved slightly to look up at him, his eyes fell on yours before you spoke, "Are you hard?"

He glared sharply, embarrassment covering his features as you felt him grow hot. You were going to ignore the feeling of him pressing into your lower stomach, but decided you wanted the chance to rub it in his face that you have the upper hand here. He tried to pull away, only for you to keep your grip.

"Stop," he warned, his hands raised away from you.

"It's only a little spark, Kats," you tried to comfort.

With a roll of his eyes he smiled evilly down at you, "You asked for it," before you could protest, he wiped his sweaty hands on your face before rubbing the rest of it off on your sweater, down your chest.

"Katsuki! That's gross," you pulled away from him, using your sleeve to wipe away the damp residue of his sweat off your cheek before you pulled the bottom of your shirt out, seeing if he got sweat marks on it. "You just used that as an excuse to touch my tits," you glared at him, seeing the faint marks of his handprint on your shirt, right over your tits. It surprised you that he sweat enough to leave a mark.

He laughed sharply, walking out of the kitchen, "Got no proof, Brains."

"I literally have the proof of your hands on my tits," you called out to him.

He looked over you, "How do I know those are mine?"

"Really? Cause I'd let a random guy grope me and he'd be sweaty enough to leave a mark like you do," you snarked.

"No way to know," he shrugged.

"You're such an ass," you groaned.

His phone buzzing loudly cut off his laughter.

"This late?" you asked as you eyed his work phone.

"It's PR," he said as he furrowed his brows, answering the phone, "Dynamight."

You heard mumbling for a moment before he huffed and put his phone on speaker. "Can she hear me now?" the lady's voice rang through, the same manager you've spoken with before.

"Hello," you answered for him, "What can I do?"

"You've done quite enough," she spoke abruptly. It took a lot to get her mad, so to have pissed her off five words was a record. "People are spreading pictures of you crying in the middle of the street."

Katsuki's eyes shot to you, concerned.

"They also claim to of heard you talking to Deku, saying you said his name several times."

His concerned look turned to a glare quickly.

"I can explain that," you said quickly before Katsuki added his two cents, "I was having a rough time and decided to call a friend, simple."

She laughed, "It's not the simple. It was the night of your party. And with the lack of social outings between Dynamight and you, people are saying the two of you broken up."

"Why does this matter?" you asked annoyed. It was still a sore subject.

"It matters because bad things are being said about the two of you. It's not just Dynamight's image anymore, but yours too. They're saying he's abusive while also saying that you're sleeping your way to the top."

You've heard that said too many times to count. Both things. So filled with anger, you grabbed the phone from Katsuki's hand and hung up.

"The fuck?"

"I don't know! I'm annoyed," you huffed, tossing his phone onto the couch before pacing, "I'm sick of people talking."

"I get it's annoying but you're gonna hear it-"

"Not helping," you glared at him.

"PR helps get them to knock it off," he pushed.

"She hardly says anything but the obvious," you rolled your eyes, "We can just post a picture of us or something."

"How does that prove I don't hit you?"

You paused your pacing, "Under a truth quirk I said the worst thing about you was your socks. I think if you abused me I would have said that."

He gave up his fight with a shrug, moving to sit on the couch instead.

"Don't get me wrong, it pisses me off that they say that. There is just no way to prove otherwise. Nothing is ever enough for them," you corrected, not wanting him to get the idea that you were only concerned for yourself.

"If you think that, why are you so pissed right now?" he crossed his arms.

You shook your eyes off the flex of his arms, throwing your hands up in frustration, "Because everyone says that, I hate hearing it."

"What do you mean?"

"Everyone thinks you hit me or some bullshit," you huff.

"Everyone?"

"Like people that don't know you," you changed, "you're a softy and they ignore it.

"Who you callin soft?" he sat up straight.

You smiled at him, "Kats, you can't even look mad at me."

He glared at you, eyebrows being the only thing supporting it. His eyes were soft. "Die."

"Let's just forget about it," you sighed, not wanting to talk about the press or your relationship. Nothing stressful.

"Why were you even cryin' to Deku?"

"You," you admitted shamefully, looking away. Talking about this would be stressful.

When he said nothing, you turned back to him. He was staring out the window. The view was filled with city lights.

"I only called him 'cause I couldn't call you," you comforted, stepping closer to him.

"Could always call me," he spoke softly.

"Kats," at this point you were standing right in front of him

"Yeah?"

You swallowed quickly, "We don't need to do everything together."

He took a deep breath, "I know, just want you to know you can call me, no matter what."

"I already know that," you smiled fondly at him. It was one of the best things about him. No matter how mad he was at a friend or family, he would never ignore them if they needed anything, even a random call. He might ignore a stupid text, but he never missed a call from someone close to him.

"Good."

"Maybe," he looked up at you, "We don't do anything publically? If they think I'm dating you then good, if they think I'm not, I don't care."

"If you want," he shrugged.

"You don't mind?" you step closer to him, him making space for you by manspreading further.

"Not really, just don't go making 'em think you're dating that damn nerd."

"Okay."

"Want somethin'?" he looked at you with a brow up. His eyes flickering from your chest to your face.

"Seems like you do," you smiled, inviting yourself more into his personal space by straddling him, both knees by his side.

"What are you doing?" his hands were pushed outwards, far from you.

"It's fine," you hushed him, sitting your weight on his lap.

"We didn't even do this stuff with the watch," he hissed at you, face flushed.

"Yes we did," you looked at him confused, "I made you cum y-"

"Shut it," he huffed, hands popping with the sound of his quirk, "Get off."

"Look, if you really want to, I will, but I don't think you want me to," you didn't want to force him into anything.

"What even put you in this mood?" he glared at you.

"You looked at my tits," you shrugged.

"Cause you still have my handprint on em," he smirked proudly.

You looked down at them quickly, "Bakugo."

"What? It's how it should be."

"Will it stain?"

"Shouldn't."

"I hate you," you glared at him.

"Sure, cause one glance at your tits makes you wanna jump me, cause you hate me," he was too cocky.

"Shut up you can hardly kiss me without losing your mind," you fought back.

"Kissed ya earlier didn't I?"

"Barely, come on, kiss me like a man-"

Forgetting his prior reluctance, he pulled you into him. Connecting your lips in a messy kiss as his hand held you to him by the back of your neck. Slowly losing its grip before sliding down to your waist. Losing himself into the kiss just as you were.

You were shocked he was even kissing you, cherishing the win regardless. Moving more onto him. Wrapping your arms around him, scratching at his scalp as you pulled on his hair.

The groan that left his lips encouraged you to push down more in his lap, wanting something more. You could never get enough of him. Anything he'd give, you'd take.

A rough push of yourself onto him caused his quirk to go off, not just a small spark either.

It singed your top, burning your skin.

You jumped off his lap once he let go, holding your sides.

His hand was placed right over your old scar.

Posted late cause I forgot to finish the chapter, and the tag list is being a bitch rn. (phone is glitching and laptop is weird) if it's fucked up mb.

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